by Vanda Symon
There must be a way to engineer that one, I thought. A bit of creative manoeuvring might be in order. It was a pity in a way that Paul wasn’t a part of this investigation and would be back to his court case in the morning. Although I would never admit it to him, I thought we worked quite well together.
‘So,’ he said, wrapping his arms around my waist and giving me a kiss. ‘What are our plans for tonight? Do you want to go out, catch a movie or something?’
Okay, this was awkward. Nice, but awkward. Just because I’d slept with the man – unintentionally, I might add – didn’t mean I wanted to encourage any further dalliance. For once in my life my mum could do me a favour. ‘Sorry, Paul, considering the grief I got last night, I think I’d better put in some time with the old girl.’
‘Fair enough. What about lunch tomorrow, then?’
It did have appeal, but a part of me was in denial that Paul and I were now a bit more than friends, and another part of me wanted to be the one calling the shots. Did that make me a bad person?
‘The case is getting quite complicated, so I don’t know where I’ll be at tomorrow. Can I get back to you on that one?’
51
It was Monday morning, and for some strange reason it felt like the weekend had been cancelled, and not due to lack of interest. My body was on a go-slow and everything had been a struggle. In fact, it felt like life was conspiring against me.
First, I had to tip toe around The Mother, which, at least, did go better than anticipated. But from there it all descended into crud. There was no wholegrain bread left and I had to eat white-crap toast. I was last to the shower and it was only lukewarm. Then my hairdryer wouldn’t work, and now I couldn’t find my flaming car keys. Consequently, I was running late, which wasn’t a good thing when the first item in my diary was an audience with DI Johns. He wanted an update on what I’d covered over the weekend, which was shark talk for keeping an eye on me. I supposed it was progress that he now had enough respect for me to give me the time of day, but my bowels seemed to disagree.
After the second time around the house checking the likely spots, I finally found my keys under the newspaper, on the kitchen bench. My eyes did a spot of spontaneous leaking at the sight of the photograph of Rose-Marie and another of the fire-ravaged circus on the front page of the Otago Daily Times. The paper was folded in half, banner headline uppermost, and I wasn’t about to flip it over to see if there was a photo of an elephant on the other side. The odds were pretty high. Instead, I grabbed the keys and hightailed it out of there.
Decorum went by the wayside and I ran down the street to my car. But my rush was brought to an abrupt halt by the sight of the folded piece of paper tucked under the windscreen wiper. I sighed what felt like all the air out of my lungs and my shoulders drooped to match my mojo. Not today. There was only so much a girl could handle and my resilience had been eroded to next to nought. I wished I’d done something about this sooner, but I truly couldn’t face the hassle. It wasn’t as if there had been anything else happening in my life. I picked the note out by the corner, tossed it, unread, on to the back seat and then moped my way down to town.
I needed to hear a friendly voice, so decided a phone call was in order. It wasn’t purely a social call, as I was in need of information, as well as geniality.
‘Pathology.’
I smiled at the sound of the familiar drawl. ‘Alistair.’ I drew out the last syllable.
‘Samantha.’ He returned the favour.
‘How are you bearing up in the big smoke?’ I asked.
‘Oh, you know how it is. As much as I loved Invercargill, the grime, the bland flatness, the arctic southerlies, I’m coping okay, just. Some company would help. What are you up to tonight?’
Good old Alistair, always a trier. In fact, he’d been trying since I was a teenager and he was a pimply geek who spent his school holidays with our family. His parents were busy professionals who found it a bit inconvenient when boarding school emptied everyone out. Fortunately for him, my parents had a farm and were in the habit of picking up strays. Nowadays, Alistair was no longer pimply and was a pathologist at Dunedin hospital.
‘Mum’s in town, Dad’s in hospital – nothing serious. I need to put in some contact hours. Enough said.’
‘I hear you. So to what do I owe the pleasure, then? You only seem to call me when you want something, not just for my charm.’ He put on a dramatic sniff.
‘As much as I love the sound of your voice, you’re right, I’m that transparent – I want something.’
‘I knew it. So not even any small talk?’
‘Not today, sorry. The room has ears.’
‘Fun, how very James Bond. Fire away, then.’
‘A murder case last week.’
‘The young woman?’
‘Yes, Rose-Marie Bateman. Did you do or attend her post-mortem? What can you tell me about it?’
‘Yes, I was there. The forensic pathologist from Christchurch came down to perform it. Details? Fairly straight forward, actually. Major trauma to the head, fractured skull, intra-cranial haemorrhage which, if it didn’t kill her, would have left her with far fewer faculties than she started with. But the cause of death was drowning.’
‘She was a very bright girl, Ph.D. student.’
‘The head injury would have taken care of that.’
I felt an angry heat forming in my guts. It was a sensation that was surreptitiously replacing the blahs as my day rode on. DI Johns had helped it along, as had thoughts about the deaths that were trailing this case, criminal, medical and animal.
‘What about evidence of sexual assault or activity. Was there any semen present?’
‘No physical sign of sexual assault, vaginal or anal, which doesn’t mean there wasn’t any activity. Normally seminal fluid would last in the vagina for at least twenty-four hours, but as she’d been in the water, there was no trace.’
‘Okay. I know this probably sounds odd, but her boyfriend claimed she was a virgin. Was her hymen intact?’ I found myself blushing on the end of the phone asking such a personal question. Smithy looked at me sideways from the next desk.
‘Interesting question. No, but that doesn’t mean anything nowadays, with women leading such active lifestyles. And if we’re being frank here, there are objects of, shall we say, pleasure that can cause the hymen to tear without any actual male involvement.’ I was half-expecting Smithy to comment on what must have by now surely been a beetroot shade of red up my face. Alistair gave a small chuckle, as if he could feel my discomfort. He probably enjoyed it. He always was a little off-centre.
‘Okay, that came into the too-much-information category.’
‘You asked.’ Even more humour in his voice.
‘Pregnant?’
‘No, I’m not, thanks for asking, and neither was she.’
‘Oh, ha, ha. What about other traces of DNA? Her mouth had been gagged by tape, so there were sure to have been skin cells from her on that. What if she’d kissed someone? Could you get a DNA sample from their skin cells or saliva in her mouth if she’d been kissed?’
‘Honey, you have been watching far too much TV. In the real world, not likely. In this case, with the body in the water, impossible. Water is the enemy of evidence.’
‘But wouldn’t the tape have kept the water out of her mouth?’
‘She had a nose.’
Good one, Sam, I hadn’t thought of that.
‘What about fibres stuck to the tape?’
‘Can I refer back to my comment about your television viewing?’
‘I can’t help it, I’m an optimist, however unrealistic.’
‘Which is undoubtedly the best way to be, and one of the things we love about you, Sam. The tape did go to ESR for testing, so if there was anything on it, fibres, fingerprints, DNA, you’ll have to be patient and wait for them to perform their magic.’
Dunedin didn’t have its own forensic laboratory, we had to send samples off to Environmental Scie
nce and Research in Christchurch. And like all good things, they took time.
‘Anything else?’ he asked.
‘Nothing dodgy in her blood?’
‘Nothing. No alcohol, drugs. She was slightly anaemic – could have done with some iron tablets or a few good steak dinners. Speaking of which, are you sure you don’t want to hop out for a bite?’
The image of Paul, the unclad version, popped into my mind, and for some absurd reason, even though I’d say no to Alistair regardless – too much like a brother – I felt obliged to say no out of principle.
What was that all about?
52
‘Don’t touch that.’ I clamped my hands together behind my back and did my best to look nonchalant. ‘That gas-liquid chromatograph cost us forty thousand dollars, so if you don’t mind, keep your hands to yourself.’
I didn’t even recall touching it. I’d been listening to Smithy questioning Professor Simpson and my hand had wandered over without my knowledge. Despite my best efforts, my damned face gave me away again. Unfortunately, some things you didn’t grow out of.
We were at the university again, getting back to basics with Rose-Marie’s colleagues. I’d survived my early debrief with Sharkman Johns, who had let me out under Smithy’s care and had been semi-civil with only a touch of condescension. Call me cynical, but I found this newfound favour disturbing.
We were standing in a laboratory in the Pharmacy Department of the university. Everywhere you went up here there seemed to be padlocked freezers sitting in dimly lit corridors. I found it an almost-depressing environment to be in, despite the pink walls. This lab was vast, with rows of working benches covered with an array of scientific-looking equipment. There was a continuous background fan hum coming from the fume hoods along one wall. Despite the air circulation, the place still had an aroma that hinted of a cross between floor polish, something acidic enough to eat your face off and weirdly, linament.
‘So how would you describe your relationship with Miss Bateman?’ Smithy asked, having allowed a pause for me to recover my composure.
‘We had a good working relationship. I held her in very high regard, she was a fine researcher and I had no doubt she’d be a successful doctoral candidate.’ The professor had turned to watch me rather than face Smithy while answering the questions. I felt distinctly squirmy under his gaze, and not just because he was keeping an eye on his property. Despite his slightly unkempt look, the man had magnetism. I wondered if the other women in the department felt it. If Rose-Marie had felt it.
‘Had you noticed any changes in her behaviour or in her work recently?’
‘You asked me these questions last time you were here. Look, I’m very busy at the moment. You’d be better off talking to Dr Collins who saw her every day.’
Smithy never took kindly to being fobbed off, even less so by academics, in whom he seemed to hold an inherent distrust. ‘Oh, I’m very sorry to take up your precious time, and I will be talking to the others too, but, I have questions that need to be asked, and I’m here, now.’ He’d puffed up to twice his normal size, and the professor, who I took as being someone not about to be intimidated, reciprocated. He shot me a look, and I yanked back my hand that had been straying towards the chromatograph again. I had to look down at the floor to hide my smile.
‘Exactly how often did you see Miss Bateman?’
‘I couldn’t tell you exactly, but we had a regular Thursday-morning appointment to review progress.’
‘And what exactly did her work entail?’
‘I won’t go into details, as it’s commercially sensitive and it would be too complex for you to understand.’ I swear I felt the room temperature drop five degrees. ‘But she was doing research into a new dosage form of insulin.’
‘Who would benefit from any financial gain, and what sort of income are we talking about?’ I asked this question to give Smithy a chance to breathe and prevent the possibility of physical violence. Money was as common a motive for murder as lust.
‘The university would hold the rights for commercial applications of the research, and this is potentially very important and lucrative. It would revolutionise the administration of insulin to diabetics and negate the need for refrigeration. So it would have immense benefits for patients, particularly in Third World countries.’
‘Thousands? Millions?’
‘Millions, billions. But of course, it costs a lot of money to develop practical and commercial applications for research, and it can take years. This is early days.’
‘Who pays for the costs of development? The university?’
‘The university, and also grants from research institutes. There are several stakeholders.’ Commercial intricacies weren’t my forte, but it didn’t take a rocket scientist to see the potential for motive where vast sums of money were concerned. It still didn’t make sense with respect to Rose-Marie’s involvement though.
‘Will this research still be able to go ahead with Miss Bateman out of the picture?’
‘Of course; no one is indispensable, and I will personally ensure this vital research continues.’ I’m sure he would, especially with dollars involved. The prof had no idea how much the ‘indispensable’ word had gotten up my back up, but Smithy sensed it and stepped back into the conversation.
‘Were you aware of any tensions between the researchers on this project, any disagreements?’
The professor seemed to waver before giving his response. ‘Nothing major, just the usual arguments that occur between strong-minded, focused people. Again, I would recommend you talk to Dr Collins or Dr Hawkins who had more to do with her on a day-to-day basis. Now if you don’t mind,’ he said, looking at his wrist watch, ‘I have an appointment with the faculty head. Dr Collins should be down in his room along the hallway and to your right. If there’s anything else I can help you with, please be in touch. Good day, officers,’ at which he turned and left the room, leaving us standing there.
53
Where Professor Simpson had distinguished charm but a lack of manners, Dr Jeffrey Collins had a look best described as unfortunate but a natural warmth. He put me at ease from the first handshake. I’d been hauled back to the office before we had a chance to interview him last week, so Smithy did the introductions. I observed a mid-forties man whose face was dominated by a raised strawberry birthmark that spread across his right cheek and down to his jaw. He was of slim build and dressed entirely in black like a Johnny Cash wannabe. My mind immediately put him off the suspects list because he was so distinguishable. No amount of make-up could disguise his face.
‘What can I help you with today?’ he asked and sat down on the corner of a desk. ‘Are you any closer to finding out what happened to Rosie?’
‘We’re going back over her work and associations at the university, so if you don’t mind, I’ll probably be going over some of the things I asked last time.’
‘That’s okay. Anything I can do to help. I saw in the papers that dreadful business with the circus. I take it if you’re back here, then you no longer believe anyone in the circus is a suspect?’ At his mention of the circus, my eyes filled up with tears and I turned and pretended a great interest in a poster on the wall. God, Sam. I’d thought I was getting over that. Apparently not.
‘We’re spreading our investigations wider and not making any assumptions at this point.’ Smithy gave my hand a slight brush. ‘We’ve talked with Professor Simpson this morning, and will be talking with Dr Hawkins after you. You worked with Miss Bateman every day, is that right?’
‘Yes, she was doing her research in my lab and we were collaborating on the project. She had an amazing mind, that girl.’ The tone of his voice told of his admiration for her. ‘I’ve seen some very bright young people come through this lab, but she had not only the intelligence, but the smarts, if you see what I mean. She wasn’t one of those all-brains-no-sense people. She could figure out how to tackle a problem, bring in thoughts or ideas that seemed completely unrelated or
unlikely. It’s like this project we’re working on – such an elegant solution. It’s a huge loss.’
I’d composed myself enough to turn back and join in. ‘Will her loss put an end to the research she was doing?’ I asked.
‘Not for this specific project, as we’re far enough along the track, but as far as offshoots are concerned and just the … her potential. It’s an unbearable loss.’ His face reflected his words.
‘It’s clear you hold her in very high regard. Was that the general feeling for everyone? We’ve been told that there can be a little jealousy between colleagues – was there any of that kind of friction here. Did anyone dislike her?’
‘You find petty jealousies everywhere. It’s human nature, isn’t it? To envy those who are better, faster, more talented than you? So yes, there was a certain level of friction, professional rivalry, but basically, she was such a lovely girl, people couldn’t help but like her.’
‘Was there anyone in particular who comes to mind?’
‘I’m sure others will tell you that there was a little tension between Rosie and Dr Hawkins. They were professional and got on with the job, but Rosie did find it difficult and couldn’t understand why Penny just didn’t seem to like her.’ I could relate to that. Didn’t everyone want to be liked? It wasn’t good for your confidence to know someone hated your guts. I could imagine Rosie would have found it quite hurtful, especially if she was in contact with Dr Hawkins every day. It would be hard to escape if your nose was being rubbed in it.
‘Are you aware of any romantic involvement Miss Bateman may have had within the department?’ That was a rather direct question from Smithy. He was making the assumption the good doctor here wasn’t a love interest, probably on face value.