by P. D. James
Brenda knew that she would never again be able to wear her own panties, their prettiness contaminated forever by the memory of this dead unknown girl. Perhaps they had even bought them together in the same store, on the same day. She could recall the excitement of spending for the first time money she had actually earned. It had been a Saturday afternoon and there had been a crush round the lingerie counter, eager hands rummaging among the panties. She had liked the pair with the sprays of pink machine-embroidered flowers across the front. So, too, had this unknown girl. Perhaps their hands had touched.
She cried: “Inspector. Isn’t death terrible?”
“Murder is. Death isn’t; at least, no more than birth is. You couldn’t have one without the other or there’d be no room for us all. I reckon I won’t worry overmuch when my time comes.”
“But that policeman who brought in the exhibits said that she was only eighteen. That’s my age.”
He was making out the folder for the new case, meticulously transferring details from the police form to the file. And his head, with the cropped dry hair which reminded her so of corn stubble, was bent low over the page so that she could not see his face. Suddenly she remembered being told that he had lost an only daughter, killed by a hit-and-run driver, and she wished the words unsaid. Her face flared and she turned her eyes away. But when he replied his voice was perfectly steady.
“Aye, poor lass. Led him on, I dare say. They never learn. What’s that you’ve got?”
“It’s the bag of male clothes, suit, shoes and underwear. Do you think these belong to the chief suspect?”
“They’ll be the husband’s, likely as not.”
“But what can they prove? She was strangled, wasn’t she?”
“No telling for certain until we get Dr. Kerrison’s report. But they usually examine the chief suspect’s clothes. There might be a trace of blood, a grain of sand or earth, paint, minute fibres from the victim’s clothes, a trace of her saliva even. Or she could have been raped. All that bundle will go into the Biology Search Room with the victim’s clothes.”
“But the policeman didn’t say anything about rape! I thought you said this bundle belongs to the husband.”
“You don’t want to let it worry you. You have to learn to be like a doctor or a nurse, detached, isn’t it?”
“Is that how forensic scientists feel?”
“Likely as not. It’s their job. They don’t think about victims or suspects. That’s for the police. They’re only concerned with scientific facts.”
He was right, thought Brenda. She remembered the time only three days previously when the Senior Scientific Officer of the instrument section had let her look into the giant scanning electron microscope and watch the image of a minute pill of putty burst instantaneously into an exotic incandescent flower. He had explained.
“It’s a coccolith, magnified six thousand times.”
“A what?”
“The skeleton of a micro-organism which lived in the ancient seas from which the chalk in the putty was deposited. They’re different, depending on where the chalk was quarried. That’s how you can differentiate one sample of putty from another.”
She had exclaimed: “But it’s so lovely!”
He had taken her place at the eyepiece of the instrument. “Yes, nice, isn’t it?”
But she had known that, while she looked back in wonder across a million years, his mind was on the minute scrape of putty from the heel of the suspect’s shoe, the trace which might prove a man was a rapist or a murderer. And yet, she had thought, he doesn’t really mind. All he cares about is getting the answer right. It would have been no use asking him whether he thought there was a unifying purpose in life, whether it could really be chance that an animal so small that it couldn’t be seen by the naked eye could die millions of years ago in the depths of the sea and be resurrected by science to prove a man innocent or guilty. It was odd, she thought, that scientists so often weren’t religious when their work revealed a world so variously marvellous and yet so mysteriously unified and at one. Dr. Lorrimer seemed to be the only member of Hoggatt’s who was known to go regularly to church. She wondered if she dared ask him about the coccolith and God. He had been very kind this morning about the murder. He had arrived at the Laboratory over an hour late, at ten o’clock, looking terribly tired because he had been up that night at the scene of crime, and had come over to the reception desk to collect his personal post.
He had said: “You’ll be getting exhibits from your first murder case this morning. Don’t let them worry you, Brenda. There’s only one death we need to be frightened of, and that’s our own.”
It was a strange thing to have said, an odd way to reassure her. But he was right. She was suddenly glad that Inspector Blakelock had done the documentation on the clunch pit murder. Now, with care, the owner of those stained panties would remain, for her, unknown, anonymous, a number in the biology series on a manila folder.
Inspector Blakelock’s voice broke into her thoughts: “Have you got those court reports we checked yesterday ready for the post?”
“Yes, they’ve been entered in the book. I meant to ask you. Why do all the court statements have ‘Criminal Justice Act 1967 sections 2 and 9’ printed on them?”
“That’s the statutory authority for written evidence to be tendered at committal proceedings and the Crown Court. You can look up the sections in the library. Before the 1967 Act the labs had a hard time of it, I can tell you, when all scientific evidence had to be given orally. Mind you, the court-going officers still have to spend a fair amount of time attending trials. The defence doesn’t always accept the scientific findings. That’s the difficult part of the job, not the analysis but standing alone in the witness box to defend it under cross-examination. If a man’s no good in the box, then all the careful work he does here goes for nothing.”
Brenda suddenly remembered something else that Mrs. Mallett had told her, that the motorist who had killed his daughter had been acquitted because the scientist had crumbled under the cross-examination; something to do with the analysis of chips of paint found on the road which matched the suspect’s car. It must be terrible to lose an only child; to lose any child. Perhaps that was the worst thing that could happen to a human being.
No wonder Inspector Blakelock was often so quiet; that when the police officers came in with their hearty banter he answered only with that slow, gentle smile.
She glanced across at the Laboratory clock. Ten forty-five. Any minute now the scene-of-crime course would be arriving for their lecture on the collection and preservation of scientific evidence, and this brief spell of quiet would be over. She wondered what Colonel Hoggatt would think if he could visit his Laboratory now. Her eyes were drawn, as they so often were, to his portrait hanging just outside the Director’s office. Even from her place at the desk she could read the gold lettering on the frame.
COLONEL WILLIAM MAKEPEACE HOGGATT V.C. CHIEF CONSTABLE
1894–1912
FOUNDER OF HOGGATT’S FORENSIC SCIENCE LABORATORY
He was standing in the room which was still used as a library, his ruddy face stern and bewhiskered under the sprouting plumes of his hat, his braided, bemedalled tunic fastened with a row of gilt buttons. One proprietorial hand was laid, light as a priestly blessing, on an old-fashioned microscope in gleaming brass. But the minatory eyes weren’t fixed on this latest scientific wonder; they were fixed on Brenda. Under his accusing gaze, recalled to duty, she bent again to her work.
8
By twelve o’clock the meeting of senior scientists in the Director’s office to discuss the furniture and equipment for the new Laboratory was over, and Howarth rang for his secretary to clear the conference table. He watched her as she emptied and polished the ashtray (he didn’t smoke and the smell of ash offended him), collected together the copies of the Laboratory plans and gathered up the strewn discarded papers. Even from his desk, Howarth could see Middlemass’s complex geometrical doodles,
and the crumpled agenda, ringed with coffee stains, of the Senior Vehicle Examiner, Bill Morgan.
He watched the girl as she moved with quiet competence about the table, wondering, as always, what, if anything, was going on behind that extraordinarily wide brow, those slanted, enigmatic eyes. He missed his old personal assistant, Marjory Faraker, more than he had expected. It had, he thought ruefully, been good for his self-conceit to find that her devotion didn’t, after all, extend to leaving London where, surprisingly, she had been discovered to have a life of her own, to join him in the fens. Like all good secretaries she had acquired, or at least known how to simulate, some of the idealized attributes of wife, mother, mistress, confidante, servant and friend without being, or indeed expecting to be, any of these. She had flattered his self-esteem, protected him from the minor irritations of life, preserved his privacy with maternal pugnacity, had ensured, with infinite tact, that he knew all he needed to know about what was going on in his Laboratory.
He couldn’t complain about Angela Foley. She was a more than competent shorthand typist and an efficient secretary. Nothing was left undone. It was just that for her he felt that he hardly existed, that his authority, meekly deferred to, was nevertheless a charade. The fact that she was Lorrimer’s cousin was irrelevant. He had never heard her mention his name. He wondered from time to time what sort of a life she led in that remote cottage with her writer friend, how far it had satisfied her. But she told him nothing, not even about the Laboratory. He knew that Hoggatt’s had a heartbeat—all institutions did—but the pulse eluded him.
He said: “The Foreign and Commonwealth Office want us to take a Danish biologist for two or three days next month. He’s visiting England to look at the Service. Fit him in, will you, when I’m free to give him some time. You’d better consult Dr. Lorrimer about his diary commitments. Then let the FCO know what days we can offer.”
“Yes, Dr. Howarth.”
At least the autopsy was over. It had been worse than he had expected, but he had seen it through and without disgrace. He hadn’t expected that the colours of the human body would be so vivid, so exotically beautiful. Now he saw again Kerrison’s gloved fingers, sleek as eels, busying themselves at the body’s orifices. Explaining, demonstrating, discarding. Presumably he had become as immune to disgust as he obviously was to the sweet-sour smell of his mortuary. And to all the experts in violent death, faced daily with the final disintegration of the personality, pity would be as irrelevant as disgust.
Miss Foley was ready to go now and had come up to the desk to clear his out-tray.
He said: “Has Inspector Blakelock worked out last month’s average turn-round figures yet?”
“Yes, sir. The average for all exhibits is down to twelve days, and the blood alcohol has fallen to 1.2 days. But the figure for crimes against the person is up again. I’m just typing the figures now.”
“Let me have them as soon as they’re ready, please.” There were memories which, he suspected, would be even more insistent than Kerrison marking out with his cartilage knife on the milk-white body the long line of the primary incision. Doyle, that great black bull, grinning at him in the washroom afterwards as, side by side, they washed their hands. And why, he wondered, had he felt it necessary to wash? His hands hadn’t been contaminated.
“The performance was well up to standard. Neat, quick and thorough, that’s Doc Kerrison. Sorry we shan’t be able to call for you when we’re ready to make the arrest. Not allowed. You’ll have to imagine that bit. But there’ll be the trial to attend, with any luck.”
Angela Foley was standing in front of the desk, looking at him strangely, he thought.
“Yes?”
“Scobie has had to go home, Dr. Howarth. He’s not at all well. He thinks it may be this two-day flu that’s going about. And he says that the incinerator has broken down.”
“Presumably he telephoned for the mechanic before he left.”
“Yes, sir. He says it was all right yesterday morning when Inspector Doyle came with the court orders authorizing the destruction of the cannabis exhibits. It was working then.”
Howarth was irritated. This was one of those minor administrative details which Miss Faraker would never have dreamed of troubling him with. Miss Foley was, he guessed, expecting him to say something sympathetic about Scobie, to inquire whether the old man had been fit to cycle home. Dr. MacIntyre had, no doubt, bleated like an anxious sheep when any of the staff were ill. He bent his head over his papers. But Miss Foley was at the door. It had to be now. He made himself say: “Ask Dr. Lorrimer to come down for a few minutes, will you please?”
He could, perfectly casually, have asked Lorrimer to stay on after the meeting; why hadn’t he? Probably because there might have been an echo of the headmaster in so public a request. Perhaps because this was an interview he had been glad to postpone, even temporarily.
Lorrimer came in and stood in front of the desk.
Howarth took out Bradley’s personal file from his right-hand drawer and said: “Sit down will you, please. This annual report on Bradley. You’ve given him an adverse marking. Have you told him?”
Lorrimer remained standing. He said: “I’m required by the reporting rules to tell him. I saw him in my office at ten-thirty, as soon as I got back from the PM.”
“It seems a bit hard. According to his file, it’s the first adverse report he’s had. We took him on probation eighteen months ago. Why hasn’t he made out?”
“I should have thought that was obvious from my detailed markings. He’s been promoted above his capacity.”
“In other words, the Board made a mistake?”
“That’s not so unusual. Boards occasionally do. And not only when it comes to promotions.”
The allusion was blatant, a deliberate provocation, yet Howarth decided to ignore it. With an effort he kept his voice level.
“I’m not prepared to countersign this report as it stands. It’s too early to judge him fairly.”
“I made that excuse for him last year when he’d been with us six months. But if you disagree with my assessment you’ll presumably say so. There’s a space provided.”
“I intend to use it. And I suggest that you try the effect of giving the boy some support and encouragement. There are two reasons for an inadequate performance. Some people are capable of doing better and will if judiciously kicked into it. Others aren’t. To kick them is not only pointless, it destroys what confidence they have. You run an efficient department. But it might be more efficient and happier if you learned how to understand people. Management is largely a matter of personal relationships.”
He made himself look up.
Lorrimer said through lips so stiff that the words sounded cracked: “I hadn’t realized that your family were noted for success in their personal relationships.”
“The fact that you can’t take criticism without becoming as personal and spiteful as a neurotic girl is an example of what I mean.”
He never knew what Lorrimer was about to reply. The door opened and his sister came in. She was dressed in slacks and a sheepskin jacket, her blond hair bound with a scarf. She looked at them both without embarrassment and said easily: “Sorry, I didn’t realize you were engaged. I ought to have asked Inspector Blakelock to ring.”
Without a word, Lorrimer, deathly pale, turned on his heels, walked past her and was gone.
Domenica looked after him, smiled and shrugged. She said: “Sorry if I interrupted something. It’s just to say that I’m going to Norwich for a couple of hours to buy some materials. Is there anything you want?”
“Nothing, thank you.”
“I’ll be back before dinner, but I think I’ll give the village concert a miss. Without Claire Easterbrook the Mozart will be pretty insupportable. Oh, and I’m thinking of going up to London for the best part of next week.”
Her brother didn’t reply.
She looked at him and said: “What’s wrong?”
“How did Lorrim
er know about Gina?” He didn’t need to ask her if it was she who had told him. Whatever else she may have confided, it would not have been that.
She went across, ostensibly to study the Stanley Spencer set in the overmantel of the fireplace, and asked lightly: “Why? He didn’t mention your divorce, did he?”
“Not directly, but the allusion was intended.”
She turned to face him. “He probably took the trouble to find out as much as possible about you when he knew that you were a candidate for the job here. It isn’t such a large service after all.”
“But I came from outside it.”
“Even so, there would be contacts, gossip. A failed marriage is one of those unconsidered trifles he might expect to sniff out. And what of it? After all, it’s not unusual. I thought forensic scientists were particularly at risk. All those late hours at scenes of crime and the unpredictable court attendances. They ought to be used to marital break-ups.”
He said, knowing that he sounded as petulant as an obstinate child: “I don’t want him in my Lab.”
“Your Lab? It isn’t quite as simple as that, is it? I don’t think the Stanley Spencer is right over the fireplace. It looks incongruous. It’s strange that Father bought it. Not at all his kind of picture, I should have said. Did you put it here to shock?”
Miraculously, his anger and misery were assuaged. But then she had always been able to do that for him.
“Merely to disconcert and confuse. It’s intended to suggest that I may be a more complex character than they assume.”