by Laura Wilson
Aren’t we just, thought Stratton, wearily. ‘Was he at all stiff?’
‘No, he came over quite easy.’
Stratton sniffed at the body, hoping for a whiff of alcohol – if the head wounds could be chalked up to a drunken fall, that would wrap things up nicely. Scenting nothing, he stood up again.
‘Must of been last night,’ said the warden. ‘Like I said, I always come this way, so I’d have noticed. You do see some funny things in this job,’ he conceded, ‘some of ’em don’t have a mark, but this one didn’t seem right to me. We didn’t get any bombing here last night, or the night before. This lot,’ he jerked his thumb at the site, ‘come down six months ago, and he ain’t dead long enough for that – if he’d just worked his way up to the top, I mean. That happens, too. Things,’ he added, vaguely, ‘moving.’
Stratton stood for a moment, indecisive. Ordinarily, such a situation would have sharpened his interest, but today…He shook his head, trying to force his brain to life. ‘Right,’ he said to Ballard, ‘seeing as we’re so close to the hospital, I’m going to have a word with Dr Byrne. Take some details, and then you,’ he nodded at the warden, ‘can get off home.’
‘Yes, sir.’ He left Ballard extracting his notebook from his tunic, and began picking his way through the rubble towards the Middlesex.
After several years’ working with Dr Byrne the pathologist, Stratton, though impressed by the man’s observational skills, had never got used to his way with the living, which was brusque to the point of rudeness. His manner matched his domain, which was permanently cold and smelt of a mixture of cadavers and disinfectant. The refrigeration – never enough after an air-raid, when sheeted bodies lay in the corridor awaiting inspection – coupled with the damp cement floor and the hard textures of the white porcelain tables, metal instruments, rubber overalls, and the slippery prophylactic feel of recently washed dead flesh, made everything cold to the touch. Everything was impersonal, hygienic, clinical, and bathed in harsh white light.
The odour of decomposition hit Stratton as soon as he opened the outer door. The main room was deserted, save for three bodies lying, covered up, on the tables. From next door came the sounds of bangs and curses, and when Stratton called out, Higgs, Dr Byrne’s assistant, wizened and jockey-like, appeared looking flustered. ‘What’s going on?’
‘Bit of a problem, Inspector.’ Higgs opened the door to the refrigerator room, and Stratton saw, propped against the wall, a metal tray with a fat woman, wrapped in a paper shroud, stuck to it so that she appeared to be hovering three inches from the floor like some bizarre decoration. An elderly undertaker’s man, clad in top hat and black coat, was chipping away at her sides with a hammer and chisel, aided by another mortuary assistant. ‘Frozen, she is, Mr Stratton. Stuck fast. We’ve tried sliding her, but it’s no good.’
‘Jesus,’ said Stratton, revolted. ‘Can’t you wait for her to thaw?’
‘Not likely,’ said the undertaker’s man. ‘She’s due in Cricklewood. Funeral’s at twelve, and we’ll have to tidy her up a bit first.’
‘I’ll leave to you to it.’ Stratton rolled his eyes. ‘Best of luck. Where’s Dr Byrne?’ he asked Higgs.
‘Gone up to the laboratory. I’ll take you.’
‘Does that happen often?’ Stratton asked, as they went up the stairs.
‘No. Got up like a fourpenny hambone when she come in, with not a mark on her. Nothing to tell who she was, though. Had a hell of a job finding someone to claim her, so she’s been with us for a while, and…’ Higgs’s face, which reminded Stratton of the sort of preserved infant one might see in a Will Hay comedy, puckered in disgust. ‘As if we didn’t have enough to be going on with. Bodies all over the shop. At least we’ve got an assistant now.’
‘Was that him in there?’
‘That’s right.’ Stratton tried to recall what the man had looked like, but, beyond a vague impression of medium height and sandy hair, couldn’t visualise him. ‘If you don’t mind,’ said Higgs, ‘we’ll use the stairs. Lift keeps breaking down.’
After three flights, neither man was inclined to talk, which suited Stratton, but after five, he was panting, and had to stop and collect himself before Higgs ushered him into the laboratory. Dr Byrne, perched on a high stool, sat squinting into a microscope, surrounded by an array of jars containing, variously, a grotesquely malformed baby, a severed hand, a tapeworm, and something that looked horribly like a tumour. Byrne himself had a sort of specimen quality, being entirely bald, with the thinnest eyebrows Stratton had ever seen on a man, and a greenish-white complexion that made his head look as if it had been preserved in formalin.
‘Stratton.’ Byrne peered irritably over the top of his instrument. ‘What do you want?’
‘There’s a body I’d like you to see before it’s moved. Found on the bomb-site over the way this morning. I’m not sure about it.’
‘Making detecting history, are we?’
Stratton, stung by the implication that he was gunning for fame and promotion, said, drily, ‘I doubt it’s going to lead us to a Crippen or a Ruxton, if that’s what you mean. To be honest,’ he added, ‘I’m hoping you’re going to tell me he got that way by accident.’
‘Ah.’ Byrne managed to work a whole rainbow of meanings into the monosyllable, chief amongst which seemed to be that Stratton’s lack of enthusiasm for the chase left a lot to be desired.
‘Sorry,’ said Stratton, irritated by this. ‘Didn’t manage a lot of sleep last night.’
‘New bomb, was it?’ asked Byrne, and Stratton was astonished to see a flicker of something that looked almost like sympathy cross his face.
‘’Fraid so.’
‘Family all safe, I hope?’ Stratton was touched to see that, for a moment, Byrne looked concerned.
‘Yes thanks.’
‘That’s good.’ The pathologist’s face resumed its usual disapproving expression. ‘Right, then.’ He told Higgs to fetch a stretcher and marched downstairs to collect his bag, Stratton at his heels.
The warden had gone by the time they reached the bomb-site. Stratton had expected Dr Byrne to get cracking as soon as he’d uncovered the corpse, but he stood back, hands on hips, shaking his head. Higgs, next to him, also shook his head, although Stratton felt that it was sycophancy rather than informed opinion that made him do it. ‘What’s wrong?’ he asked.
‘That,’ said Byrne, ‘is Dr Reynolds.’ He frowned at Stratton, and shook his head some more. Higgs, whose face had momentarily registered that he had not recognised the corpse and was as surprised as Stratton, immediately narrowed his eyes to mirror Byrne’s expression, and added a touch of his own by sucking his teeth.
Turning his attention back to Byrne, Stratton had the impression that the man thought the whole thing was in poor taste – a practical joke, perhaps, set up by himself and Ballard at Byrne’s expense.
‘You know him, then?’ he asked.
‘Of course I know him!’ Byrne sounded outraged. Jabbing a finger in the direction of the body, he said, ‘He’s a doctor. From the Middlesex.’ There was no regret in his voice, only the suggestion that Reynolds had somehow let the side down by snuffing it.
‘Well, that’s given us a head start – at least we know who he is. Are you going to take a look at him?’
‘Yes, yes,’ said Byrne testily, waving a hand at Stratton. ‘Stand back.’ Stratton and Ballard withdrew to a discreet distance.
‘What a turn up,’ Stratton murmured.
‘I’d say so, sir.’
‘Get everything?’
‘What there was, sir. Warden’s name’s Prior. From Post C. I’ve got all the details. What do you think Dr Reynolds was doing out here, sir?’
‘On his way home, I suppose.’
‘Bit dangerous cutting across a bomb-site in the dark, sir.’
‘Unless he’d lost his way…or had a skinful.’
‘Not if he’d come straight from the hospital, sir.’ Ballard sounded shocked.
‘That’s true. But
he might have been off duty. Anyway, there’s no point speculating. We’ll just have to wait for Laughing Boy to tell us what happened.’
Barely ten minutes had elapsed before Byrne, having finished his notes and sketches, covered the body, straightened up and motioned Stratton over to him. ‘Head wound,’ he said.
Tell me something I don’t know, thought Stratton. ‘How was it caused?’ he asked.
‘Don’t know yet. I’ve done all I can here, so…’ On cue, Higgs hurried forward with the stretcher. ‘Fetch Todd,’ Byrne ordered.
Before Higgs could depart, Stratton said, ‘My sergeant can help carry him.’
Byrne looked at Ballard with wary distaste, as if he might violate Dr Reynolds’s body in some particularly disgusting way if allowed anywhere near it. ‘Todd,’ he told Higgs, ‘and look sharp.’
Higgs departed, negotiating the uneven ground at a stumbling run, and Byrne turned back to Stratton. ‘You’ll have my report tomorrow,’ he said.
Stratton decided to ignore the air of finality. ‘How long has he been dead?’
‘Can’t say at the moment.’
‘An estimate?’
‘Six hours, possibly more.’
‘Do you think,’ persisted Stratton, ‘that it was an accident?’
‘I can’t be sure. I suggest you ask your men to search the area. You’ll need to collect all those bricks and so on…’ Byrne indicated the area around Reynolds’s head, ‘and have it sent to the Home Office analyst.’
Bollocks, thought Stratton, that’s all I need. Aloud, he said, ‘That’s necessary, is it, in your view?’
Byrne crossed his arms and pursed his lips. End of conversation. It reminded Stratton of a deckchair being folded away, so much so that he was surprised not to hear an audible snap. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘if that’s everything…’
‘It is.’
‘I’ll say goodbye, then,’ said Stratton. Byrne gave him a curt nod. Pausing only to tell Ballard to stay put and make sure that nobody else walked over the bomb-site, Stratton strode off as fast as he could without breaking an ankle. Going arse over tit in front of Byrne really would be the last straw. Anyone would think it was his fault that Dr Reynolds had turned up dead. I suggest you ask your men to search the area. If only he wasn’t so bloody tired…He was going to have enough problems rounding up a team of men, never mind the fact that whatever they found would have been thoroughly washed by the rain which meant it probably wouldn’t be much use anyway, and that he’d have to explain himself to DCI Lamb later if the death turned out to be accidental. But if it wasn’t, and he’d failed to act, then he’d get a strip torn off him, all right…‘Jesus,’ muttered Stratton.
At the edge of the bomb-site, he glanced round and saw Higgs and his new assistant dashing towards Byrne, jinking from side to side as they staggered over loose bits of masonry. Stratton watched them for a couple of seconds without much interest, then caught sight of Ballard heading off two girls who were about to cross the area. Hearing giggles, he spent the first couple of minutes of his walk back to the station wondering what on earth his sergeant had said to them, or if it was just the effect of Ballard’s warm brown eyes. Still, he thought, if it did turn out to be a murder enquiry, it would be a damn sight more interesting than stolen petrol coupons, which was something – or would be once he felt alert enough to deal with it.
Nine
Todd did not dismiss Stratton as easily as Stratton had dismissed him. Despite the fact that he’d been expecting the police all morning, it was still a shock. He’d looked up from his attempts to prise Mrs Lubbock away from her temporary resting place – the din of hammers on chisels had been too loud to hear the door to the refrigerator room opening – and there he was. He hadn’t said he was a policeman – it was obvious. He was huge: Todd had wondered, several times, what the policeman, or men, might look like, but hadn’t imagined that they, or he, would be so bloody big. This one looked as if he’d been a heavyweight boxer at some stage – battered, masculine and rugged. He wasn’t wearing a uniform – too important. Looking up with those tools in his hands, seeing him towering above them, staring down in horror, he’d felt guilty, and it must have shown. The policeman hadn’t seemed to notice; too shocked by the sight of him and the bloke from the undertaker’s hacking away each side of the poor woman’s bum, no doubt. But the policeman had looked intelligent. Shrewd. He’d only stayed long enough to ask where Dr Byrne was, but all the same, he was someone to watch out for…
When they’d left, the undertaker’s man sniffed, and said, ‘Copper. Wonder what that’s about?’ then recommenced his assault on Mrs Lubbock’s frozen thigh without waiting for an answer. Todd positioned his chisel under the head and banged away with such ferocity that the other shouted, ‘Oi, steady on! You’ll have the poor cow’s eye out.’
‘Sorry.’ Concentrating hard, to keep his mind off what the policeman might be doing, he re-applied himself to unsticking Mrs Lubbock from the tray. By the time they’d got her off and packed her up, he was sweating heavily, despite the chill of the room, and so shaky that he felt he must sit down before he keeled over. He was splashing water on the back of his neck when Higgs rushed in, panting.
‘Come on!’
‘What?’
‘Bomb-site – there’s a body – Dr Reynolds.’
He kept his face entirely blank. ‘Who’s Dr Reynolds?’
‘Works here. Upstairs. Dr Byrne recognised him.’
That was a shock. If Byrne had recognised Reynolds, he must have more to do with the other staff than Todd had realised. He’d never seen Byrne in the main part of the hospital, but all the same…That wasn’t good. Wrenching his thoughts back to the matter in hand, he said, deliberately stupid, ‘Do you mean he’s dead?’
‘Yes.’
‘But what’s he doing there?’
‘Well, he’s not admiring the scenery, is he? Come on, look sharp.’
‘Mind you,’ gasped Higgs, as they galloped down the corridor, ‘he’s had a bang on the head. Dr Byrne’s not happy about it. Said the coppers ought to search the place.’
Todd slowed. ‘Search? What for?’
‘What do you think?’
‘Did someone hit him?’
‘How the hell do I know? Bleeding hurry up, will you?’
Despite the fact that Reynolds was covered up, Todd kept his face averted as they loaded his body onto the stretcher and brought him in, bumping clumsily over the mess. Dr Byrne walked silently beside them, and Todd wondered how he might find out how it was that he’d recognised Reynolds. A meeting, perhaps? Some sort of hospital committee? Reynolds had a fairly distinctive face – thick, dark brows and a prominent nose. He was too young to have been at medical school with Byrne. Perhaps Byrne had taught him – but, from what he’d observed of the pathologist, the man wasn’t likely to remember his former students, and certainly not to be friendly with them even if he did. Not that recognising someone was an indication of friendship, of course…But it might indicate that Byrne was more in touch with the rest of the hospital than he’d thought. Perhaps he ought to put James Dacre on ice for a while…But that would mean more boredom, more frustration, and he was ready – more than ready – for this. It was his most audacious scheme yet: for that very reason, he told himself, it had a higher than usual chance of succeeding, because nobody would believe it possible.
‘On the table, please,’ said Byrne, when they arrived at the mortuary. ‘I’ll attend to him immediately.’
Higgs rushed to fetch the instruments, leaving Byrne staring down at the shrouded form on the table. ‘Did you know Dr Reynolds well?’ asked Todd.
‘Well?’ Byrne sounded puzzled, as if the idea of having more than a passing acquaintance with somebody had never before occurred to him.
‘Higgs said you’d recognised him, so I thought…I’m sorry if I spoke out of turn. I didn’t meant to—’
‘No, no,’ Byrne interrupted. ‘We’d met on a couple of—’ He stopped, his lips moving
silently, as if trying out words for suitability. ‘On a couple of occasions.’ He turned away and started to remove his jacket.
Todd uncovered Reynolds’s body and began, with difficulty since the outer garments were partially caked with wet plaster dust, to strip it. Occasions, he thought, as he tugged the trousers over the hips. The way Byrne had said it was significant. The most likely explanation was a post-mortem on one of Reynolds’s patients – if there was a suggestion of negligence, perhaps? And if it had happened more than once…?
Higgs bustled in with the instruments and lent a hand with removing the rest of Reynolds’s clothes. ‘Better make a list of this lot,’ he said. ‘The police’ll need it.’ Todd stared down at the stripped corpse: merely the shell that once contained the man. The harsh overhead lamp gave the body a yellow tinge, so that it looked as if it were made of dirty wax.
Dr Byrne took up his position by the table, and his beanpole of an assistant, Miss Lynn (the Forces’ Sourpuss) drew up a chair several feet away and hunched, vulture-like, over her notebook. Dismissed by Byrne, Todd took himself out to the basement yard for a breath of fresh air and a smoke. A little curiosity, he thought, would hardly seem suspicious – after all, he’d been told about the blow to the head and the police search. He could ask Higgs later, while they were cleaning up the room. He ought to try and steal a look at Byrne’s notes, too – although that would have to wait until tomorrow, when they were typed up, because Miss Lynn’s shorthand was incomprehensible. Byrne’s office, which was down the corridor, was only locked at night, so it shouldn’t be too difficult.
The spectre of the policeman loomed once more in his mind. There’s nothing to connect you with Reynolds, he told himself, and no reason for the coppers to be interested in you. And if he was questioned, he’d be able to say, with perfect truth, that he had not known the man. He’d seen him, while he was testing out his doctor’s uniform upstairs, and made a point of discovering who he was – that was how he’d been able to recognise him, even in the near-darkness. Besides, he told himself, the burden of proof is always on the accuser, even if he is a policeman. That was the most important thing to remember. He was going to be a good doctor, he knew it. Better than Reynolds, if, as he suspected, the man had made some cock-ups…When Byrne went out he’d satisfy his curiosity about that by searching through the records to see if he was right. When post-mortems were on hospital patients, Byrne always noted the name of the doctor at the top, so it would be fairly simple.