Past Mortem

by Ben Elton

  Newson let Natasha drive while he phoned ahead to the local morgue to ask them to expect him. Then he got hold of the pathologist who had attended the suicide and asked him to meet them at the morgue;

  ‘I don’t care if you’re busy!’ Newson snapped into the phone. ‘No, it can’t wait, and this is most definitely not a routine situation. You may have thought it was, Doctor, but I can only imagine that is because you are either blind or stupid…—I’ll take whatever tone I like with you, Doctor, and let me tell you that I have yet to decide whether to pursue you for gross incompetence. As it is I’ll be advising the local police to find someone else to do their forensics!’ He ended the call.

  Natasha was surprised. ‘Shit, Ed. You don’t normally get angry like that.’

  ‘I don’t normally see unbelievable incompetence like this, Natasha. Because of this complete bloody idiot we’ve had Tiffany’s aunt sponging up the evidence in what I’m quite certain was a murder scene.’

  Newson got back on his phone and made two more calls summoning the local coroner and a member of the local CID to the meeting at the morgue.

  ‘You never throw your weight around like this,’ said Natasha. ‘You should do it more often, it’s a good look on you.

  They were the first to arrive and Newson asked immediately to be shown the body of the dead girl. The assistant wheeled out the corpse and pulled the sheet from it. Newson had never got used to being in the presence of dead children and teenagers, young and healthy people on the threshold of their lives. It was the worst aspect of his job.

  He took out his eye glass and studied the girl’s wounded arms, the only parts of the body that were not pristine. He needed only the briefest of glances to confirm what he had suspected. ‘The man who declared this a suicide has definitely got to lose his job.’

  At that point the offending doctor entered, accompanied by the local coroner and a detective constable from the local police station.

  ‘Are you Detective Inspector Newson?’ the doctor enquired.

  ‘Yes, I am. You would be Dr Forrest?’

  ‘That’s right, and I’d like to make it very clear that I do not appreciate being harangued over the phone by stroppy detectives who think that just because they come from Scotland Yard — ’

  ‘Doctor Forrest,’ Newson said, interrupting the doctor’s angry diatribe, ‘may I ask you when you last attended a teenage wrist-slashing in which the desperate and depressed adolescent in question had sufficient guts and anatomical knowledge to locate and to open both radial arteries?’

  Dr Forrest was a large man. He had marched right up to Newson and was currently towering over him. Nonetheless Newson’s tone stopped him in his tracks. ‘What are you trying to say?’

  ‘It’s a simple question, Doctor, which I’ll expand on: when was the last time you saw a fourteen-year-old suicide who had the presence of mind and the steadiness of hand to strike lengthways, down the arm, proximally to distally instead of crossways, which is of course the way most people would slash their wrists, but which is, as I’m sure you’ll confirm, a far less effective manner of creating a fatal wound.’

  Dr Forrest took a step back. ‘Yes, it is, but — ’

  ‘All the other wounds are crossways, are they not?’

  ‘Hesitancy incisions, Inspector. Very common in suicides.’

  ‘Yes, I know, and even more common in suicide attempts, which is what most wrist-slashings, particularly adolescent ones, turn out to be. The subject probes and jabs, making small attention-seeking wounds. These so-called ‘hesitancy incisions’ often do not develop into a genuinely traumatic wound, but when they do it will be a deeper version of what the person has so far attempted. A crossways cut, damaging only surface veins from which the blood will flow relatively sedately. In this case, however, an innocent, unsophisticated adolescent who has been pecking away with a knife up and down her arm in the usual cosmetic manner suddenly delved deeply into her wrist, located the main radial artery and parted the tough muscular tubing surrounding it, lengthways in a deep and traumatic cut. A cut from which her life’s blood will pump in great dramatic arcs and which will kill her in minutes. Fourteen-year-old Tiffany Mellors does this not once but twice. Don’t you find this surprising, Doctor?’

  There was a pause. The big man’s face was red, his fists clenched. ‘Well, put like that I agree that this girl was unusually efficient. But there was a note and no sign of any struggle. I saw no reason to suspect foul play and I still don’t.’

  ‘I’ll tell you something else of which there was no sign, Doctor. Blood. Blood on the walls, on the bed, on the ceiling. Almost all the blood went on to the carpet beneath where the girl was sitting. You and I both know what happens when a radial artery is opened.

  The blood is pumped as if through a hosepipe. When this kind of suicide is successful the whole room gets coated. The only way that all the blood would have sprayed in a single direction is if the girl’s arms had stayed in a single position, hanging by her sides.’

  ‘Which is how she was sitting when I attended the scene.’

  ‘What are the chances of a girl who has done this to herself sitting rigidly in one position while she dies? Not very great, I suggest. Besides which, having made the first cut, she would have had to move the knife from one hand to the other and locate the second artery. During that time the first cut would have had to be pumping sideways and an arc of blood would have been deposited on the wall.’

  ‘I did not attend the scene with a criminal investigation in mind, Inspector. What I saw was a suicide and I still believe that to be the case. There was a note which the mother confirmed was in the girl’s own hand — ’

  ‘You are a forensic pathologist!’ Newson almost shouted. ‘Haven’t you ever heard of duress? Where’s the knife?’

  ‘Well, I…I — ’

  ‘I read in your report that the girl supposedly killed herself with a knife taken from the family kitchen.’

  ‘Yes, that’s right. The mother identified it.’

  ‘Where is it?’

  ‘She asked me to take it away. I did so. I bagged it up and took it back to my office, and…I…I disposed of it in my sharps bucket…Inspector, the girl was alone in her bedroom. There was no struggle, there was a note…I just presumed — ’

  ‘Jesus!’ Newson exclaimed. ‘I’d have thought that the first, the very first principle of forensic medicine, even before disturbing nothing, is that you don’t ‘just presume’ anything.’

  There was silence for a moment. Dr Forrest’s head was bowed in embarrassment. The coroner and the local detective clearly did not know what to say. Newson looked at the body of the girl. It seemed strange to be having this discussion in her presence. He pulled the sheet back to cover her nakedness.

  ‘What was the girl wearing when you found her?’

  ‘Her school uniform, except she’d taken off her tie and blouse. She was in her bra and skirt, socks and shoes.’

  ‘Where are these clothes?’

  ‘We have them,’ the morgue assistant replied.

  Newson turned to the detective constable. ‘I want the socks taken to the lab. My guess is that you’ll find residual evidence of adhesive tape. If you study the vanity chair on which Tiffany was sitting when she died, you’ll see that on both legs tiny bits of paint have been pulled off, as if a strip of tape had been wrapped around them and removed. The chair is in the boot of my car along with a cup, which I believe once contained coffee which Tiffany made for her killer, though sadly I doubt he’ll have left us any prints or DNA. I also want Tiffany’s upper arms examined, because I think amongst the scarring we’ll find some evidence that she was restrained. Whoever did it didn’t use tape, because he knew that would show heavily on the skin. I’m presuming some kind of cord was used, so there should be bruising beneath the cuts. Also please inspect her tongue. I’m pretty certain that she would have been gagged, and since there doesn’t seem to be any tape marking on her face I presume that the gag was st
uffed into her mouth.’

  ‘Detective Inspector.’ It was the coroner speaking for the first time. ‘What on earth are you saying happened in this girl’s bedroom?’

  ‘Tiffany Mellors was subdued, gagged, secured to a chair and murdered.’

  ‘But, Inspector,’ the. coroner asked, horror and bewilderment on his face. ‘Why?’

  ‘Read the note he made her write,’ Newson replied. ‘The bullying killed me in the end.’

  THIRTY-THREE

  Ed, who is this man?’

  Newson and Natasha had left the Ruislip morgue and were heading back into town, baffling the afternoon traffic which was clogged up with the three-thirty school run.

  ‘I don’t know, Natasha. I just don’t know.’

  ‘How does he get in? He always gets in, doesn’t he? Every single victim just opens the door for him. I mean, this girl would be pretty streetwise, wouldn’t she? Young women know not to open the door to just anybody. Yet he knocks, she lets him in, makes him a coffee, for Christ’s sake, and half an hour later she’s dead. How does he do it?’

  Newson did not reply.

  ‘Do you know what I’ve been wondering?’ Natasha continued. ‘I’ve been thinking that maybe it’s got nothing to do with their knowing him at all. I was thinking that perhaps he holds a position of authority. Perhaps he’s…’

  ‘A copper?’

  ‘Well, if he is it would certainly open doors and lull people into a false sense of security. You don’t expect to be killed by a policeman, do you? And don’t forget, Ed, you know him. Christine Copperfield said as much when she left her last message. You know a lot of coppers.’

  ‘And let’s be honest, a lot of coppers are bullies.’

  ‘Well, a few, certainly.’

  ‘Don’t forget, Natasha, I know how many bullies there are at Scotland Yard.’

  Their route back to town took them past the school they had visited a few hours earlier. The school was disgorging its pupils into the street. A great scruffy green-and-yellow mass of youthful humanity walking past the flowers and the two or three reporters who were still hanging about hoping for more stories. Suddenly Newson’s attention was caught. He had seen someone he knew. A tall athletic figure in classic Ray-Ban sunglasses.

  Roger Jameson.

  ‘Speaking of coppers,’ Newson said, ‘there’s one, an American one. I know him. We were at school together.’

  Newson parked the car and approached his old classmate. ‘What are you doing here, Roger?’

  ‘Same thing as you, I imagine. The death of the girl who studied here has been all over the news. Everybody put it down to bullying and it was. But not the way they saw it, right?’

  ‘I asked what you were doing here.’

  ‘Oh, come on, Ed! You know damn well why I’m here. I’m trying to find out who it was that the girl Tiffany Mellors was cutting up. You’ve been in the school so I guess you know already. The moment I started reading about the lovely Miss Mellors I knew that she was no victim, leastways not until this serial psycho of ours whacked her, she wasn’t. It’s clear that whoever has been killing bullies has started to attack them at source. Now I don’t know what it is, but somehow there’s a connection between the kid that Tiffany was victimizing and the killer. Find that connection and we find him. So that’s why I’m hanging round school gates, Ed, looking for the connection. Don’t worry, I ain’t added paedophilia to my various crimes against society.’

  ‘You seem to have an uncanny nose for this investigation, Roger. It’s almost as if you have inside information.’

  ‘But you see I do, Ed. I told you. I know this killer. He’s just like me. That’s why I’m going to catch him.’

  At this point Natasha joined them.

  ‘Good evening, miss,’ Jameson said, removing his glasses and fixing Natasha with a cool, easy smile.

  ‘Hello,’ Natasha replied. ‘You were at school with Ed, right?’

  ‘That’s right. We’re old friends.’

  ‘But you’re an American.’

  ‘I am now. I wasn’t then. Officer Roger Jameson, NYPD, at your service, ma’am.’ Jameson held out his big strong hand. He was almost a foot taller than both Newson and Natasha, slim and powerful.

  Natasha gave him a dazzling smile. ‘Detective Sergeant Natasha Wilkie,’ she said prettily. ‘Her Majesty’s Metropolitan Police.’

  Natasha and Jameson laughed together.

  Newson fumed. He could see that Jameson was just Natasha’s type, big, handsome, sexy and a bullying bastard. ‘Roger’s gay,’ he said.

  ‘Oh,’ Natasha replied, clearly nonplussed at such an unexpected and unsought piece of information.

  Jameson was surprised too. His eyes narrowed angrily as he turned his attention back to Newson. He clearly did not like having his private life thrown open in such a confrontational manner. ‘Yes, I guess that’s right,’ he said. ‘Since you bring it up, Ed. Took me a long time to work it out too, but I got there in the end.’

  ‘Yes, well…‘ Newson was embarrassed now, realizing how stupid and rude he’d been. ‘Anyway.’

  ‘So tell me, Ed,’ Jameson continued, his smile still easy but his eyes cold. ‘How long did it take before you worked out that you wanted to sleep with your sergeant here?’

  Now Newson was taken aback. ‘I don’t know what — ’

  ‘Can’t see any other reason for you looking at her the way you do — ’

  ‘I have no idea what — ’

  Natasha had turned bright red, but she made a good effort at nonchalance. ‘This is a peculiar conversation, isn’t it? I think I’ll leave you boys to it. But we do need to be getting back to the office, Ed. Goodbye, Officer Jameson. It was nice meeting you.’

  ‘My pleasure, ma’am.’

  Natasha headed back towards the car.

  ‘Cute,’ said Jameson. ‘Who whacked the face? The boyfriend? You said she was attached. I presume you went straight round and punched the bastard out. Except that ain’t exactly your style, is it? You should try it. It’d probably get you laid.’

  Newson was angry, with himself more than with Jameson. ‘I must remember not to share confidences with you in the future,’ he said.

  Jameson sneered. ‘Yeah, I could say the same thing.’

  ‘I suppose that’s a fair point.’

  ‘Besides, Eddie, I don’t need your confidences to know you. I know you anyway. It’s a talent I have.’

  ‘You may remember that I asked you to supply me with a list of your visits to Britain over the last two and a half years.’

  ‘And I did. It’s on your email. I hope you’ll tell me if the dates check out.’

  ‘What dates do you think those would be, Roger?’

  ‘Ed, please. I told you that I wasn’t stupid. I know you must have a number of other cases under review. You have access to the central crime computer and I don’t. I’m presuming you’ve gone in there and reopened all the unsolveds and found some with our killer’s hands on them. Now you want to know if I was around when the murders got done, because if I was then maybe I’m the killer.’

  ‘Yes, I think that’s a pretty fair summation of what’s on my mind.’

  ‘Or maybe I emailed Helen Smart and told it all to her. I can be very persuasive. Stay in touch, Ed.’ Jameson turned and went, leaving Newson to join Natasha in the car.

  For a moment they sat together in silence.

  ‘Um…that remark Jameson made,’ Newson said, ‘about…ahem…’

  ‘Wanting to sleep with me?’

  ‘Yes, that one. Amazing thing to say. So silly, such a cheap shot. And complete rubbish, of course. You know that.’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ Natasha replied.

  When Newson got home he found Roger Jameson’s email detailing his trips to Britain as requested. Jameson had not been in the country when Adam Bishop had been killed. Nor had he been when Neil Bradshaw had been tortured in the seed shed. He had, however, been around when Denis Spencer had had his brains ma
shed with a book and also, more significantly, when Angie Tatum had been given her rough equivalent of a harelip. Newson already knew that Jameson had been in Britain when Farrah Porter had had her spine broken before being dumped in her acid bath.

  There was also a message from Helen Smart. He opened it with little enthusiasm.

  Hello Ed, Can’t get away from me, eh? You’ll have to get a new email address. I’m home alone, well not alone of course. Karl’s here, but he’s six and watching Rugrats. I love him but he isn’t the most stimulating conversationalist. Kids may say the damndest things but I’m here to tell you that they also say them about two million times. I’m naked right now. Just had a bath and I’m in the bedroom, my skin’s still damp. You probably don’t want to know that, or the fact that I thought about you while I touched myself beneath the warm water. So delete me. Delete me right now. Go on, scroll to the menu bar and delete me. Still reading? Thought you were. I’m sitting cross legged, by the way. The laptop’s on my lap, that’s where it was designed to go, I guess. It’s a good position, it means I can type this letter one fingered and keep the other hand between my legs. One fingered, right? Did you look at our Friends site recently? That moronic slapper Sally Warren has created an ‘In Memoriam’ page on the notice board. We’re all supposed to share our thoughts and our sadness about Christine Copperfield’s death. I did, I said that I THINK it’s great and I’m SAD it didn’t happen sooner. Yeah, really, I am THAT fucked up, Ed. But at least I’m honest. Don’t tell me Sally Warren is genuinely upset ‘A beautiful candle has gone out. A candle in the wind’. Bollocks, she’s LOVING it, the drama darting, Christine murdered, how wonderful! That means Sally Warren won. She wasn’t quite as pretty as Christine and she wasn’t quite as popular but hey, she’s not dead, she didn’t get murdered. That’s got to put her in front.

  I’m angry tonight, Ed. No, don’t get paranoid, it’s not you. I’m not coming after you with my nail scissors. It’s a case I’m working on and I’ve no one to talk to about it. Not Henry Chambers, that’s for sure. What a prick. It’s disgusting. There we are together in our office, dealing with the most heartbreaking human tragedies and all he’s thinking about is putting his hands all over me. It’s in his eyes every second of the day. I can see his palms sweating when he comes near. He’d do anything for me, you know. That man would do absolutely anything to impress me. And I’d do anything to avoid being within ten feet of him. Funny, eh?