Where the Silence Calls

by M J Lee

  ‘Who is this?’ asked Schofield.

  ‘My name is Sophia Rahman. I’m Detective Inspector Ridpath’s new assistant at the coroner’s office.’

  ‘It is usual, young lady, to ask for permission before entering a post-mortem. This is not a spectator sport.’

  ‘Sorry, Dr Schofield, I should have told you. I asked her to attend,’ responded Ridpath.

  Schofield sniffed once. ‘As you are here as a guest of the detective inspector, you will be allowed to remain, Ms Rahman, but please do not speak or interrupt my examination. And if you want to be sick, please go outside. You will find a bucket in reception.’

  ‘There’s no chance of that, Dr Schofield,’ she answered defiantly.

  He sniffed again. ‘Let us begin.’

  Ridpath wanted to get back to the post-mortem. ‘Why is the torso of Sam Sykes unburnt?’ he asked again.

  ‘Our Mr Sykes lived on the streets and was wearing six layers of clothing. The clothes, particularly the overcoat, acted as a barrier to the fire.’

  ‘So his hands and face burnt but the body itself remained untouched?’

  ‘Exactly. The overcoat was so ingrained with dirt it refused to burn, despite having some sort of accelerant on it. We’ve sent samples off to the lab for testing.’

  ‘And the purse?’

  ‘We found it hidden beneath the layers, hanging around his neck from a piece of string. The string had burnt in the fire, but the purse itself had become lodged close to his body. It’s obvious he kept his valuables there.’

  ‘Living on the streets, he had to hide stuff. What better place than close to his skin?’ Sophia spoke but Dr Schofield ignored her, carrying on with his examination.

  ‘Let’s not waste any more time, shall we?’ He then adopted his best lecturer tone, though the sound was still that of a teenage boy. ‘Deaths caused by fires are not uncommon in forensic practice but can be amongst the most difficult to investigate. Post-mortem evaluations have to be adapted for each situation and may be complicated by issues with identification, and the determination of the cause and manner of death.

  ‘Deaths in house fires, such as Mr Brennan over there, where there may be low intensity burning of household effects, often occurs from the inhalation of the products of combustion. This usually involves carbon monoxide at more than fifty per cent saturation, but may also include cyanide if plastics have been burnt.’

  He paused for a moment to take a breath. His speech had been quick and the voice had risen even higher as he spoke. ‘Bodies may show characteristic cherry-pink discolouration typical of carbon monoxide exposure, and the upper airways show evidence of smoke inhalation. This may take the form of soot soiling of the nares and oropharynx with soot-stained mucus lining the trachea and main bronchi.’

  As he spoke he pointed out the main areas on Brennan’s body for Ridpath, before returning to the neighbouring mortuary table.

  ‘Unfortunately in cases like this one involving Mr Sykes, where there has been extensive burning and charring, the integrity of the airways is compromised and soot may be present purely from external contamination and not from inhalation.’

  He paused for a moment and looked up from the body. ‘Are you with me so far?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Ridpath.

  ‘Pretty basic stuff,’ said Sophia.

  Dr Schofield sniffed once and then continued. ‘A major issue in fire deaths lies in determining whether a decedent was dead before a fire started. It should also be appreciated that abnormal levels of carbon monoxide, above twenty-five per cent, that are not normally regarded as lethal, may still have fatal consequences in those with significant underlying cardiovascular disease. In other cases where there has been very rapid burning with fast consumption of environmental oxygen, a lack of carbon monoxide in the peripheral blood should not be taken as evidence death had occurred before the fire began. Intense heat also results in fracturing of bones and in epidural heat haematomas, where a collection of heated blood accumulates between the dura and skull. An additional forensic problem that is created by intense temperature is splitting, when heated skin contracts and tears. This most often occurs over the head, extensor surfaces and joints, and may be mistaken for ante-mortem wounding.’ He pointed to an area on Sam Sykes’s head that looked like it had been slashed by a knife.

  Again, he stopped and looked up. ‘To put it bluntly, it’s bloody difficult in most cases to state whether death occurred before or after the fire.’

  ‘In most cases?’

  Schofield nodded. ‘But we’re lucky in both these cases. The most interesting part of this body is the throat.’ He pointed to Sam Sykes’s neck. ‘See there, a thin indentation. A less diligent pathologist may have put this down to the skin splitting through the effect of heat. However, after careful examination, I am convinced this man had his throat cut before he died.’

  Ridpath peered over to where the doctor was pointing with his metal baton. There was a thin line on the blackened skin, almost undetectable. He concentrated on the line, controlling his reaction to the body in front of him. ‘Could this have been self-induced?’

  ‘Well, no knife was found at the scene. Plus Mr Sykes would have had to slit his own throat, then pour the accelerant on his body and set himself alight before he bled to death.’ The doctor inserted the tip of the baton beneath the skin of Sam Sykes’s neck. ‘Both carotid arteries are severed. The general rule in medicine is if the heart stops, the victim will lose consciousness in about four seconds if standing, eight if sitting, and twelve if lying down. This simply reflects the effects of gravity on blood flow. These numbers would also mostly hold true if both carotids were suddenly severed. To the brain, the complete interruption of blood flow through the carotids would look the same as it would if the heart had stopped. So the short answer is no, this couldn’t have been self-inflicted.’

  ‘Could it have been done after the burning?’

  Schofield stared at Sophia Rahman as she finished her question.

  ‘No, impossible. The haemorrhaging around the wound is fresh. There is no sign of healing at all.’

  ‘Indicating it was done before the victim died,’ said Ridpath.

  ‘You’re catching on.’

  Ridpath still found it weird looking at Schofield. It was as if a teenager was patronising him.

  ‘Even more contrary to the assumption on the police report, I would lay ten pounds to a hundred we will find no methylated spirits in this man’s stomach.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Meths has a quick and profound effect on the body. Once ingested, the body changes it into formaldehyde and formic acid. Formic acid begins to build up in the organs and when it does, serious damage to the central nervous system and the liver occurs. I can see no such build-up of formic acid in this man’s organs.’

  ‘So what are you saying, Doctor?’

  ‘My conclusion is this death wasn’t an accident. This man had his throat slit and then he was set on fire to destroy the evidence. Even worse, he was probably still alive when he was set on fire. There are smoke particles in his lungs. Whilst this is not conclusive, it suggests he was still breathing as he died. In other words, he was still inhaling the fumes.’

  There was a silence in the mortuary as everybody digested the impact of these words.

  Finally Ridpath spoke. ‘We have a murder investigation, not an accident, Doctor?’

  ‘Correct, Detective Inspector. I’ll know the exact accelerant used when the lab reports come back.’

  Ridpath nodded once. He would have to break this to Ted Jones. The man would not be pleased.

  ‘Shall we move on to our second customer?’ The pathologist moved to the next table as his assistant draped a sheet over Sam Sykes. ‘This man has been catalogued as Mr Joseph Brennan of Wythenshawe in Manchester. We have taken DNA samples to help with identification but unfortunately the fingerprints have been burnt away. Luckily, he possessed a distinctive dental bridge. This should give us a positive ID when
compared with his dental records. He supposedly died yesterday evening at approximately 22:00 in a fire.’

  ‘Why do you say “supposedly”?’

  ‘Three reasons. First, from the condition of the body when it was brought in, I would estimate he died at least six hours before the time the fire started. The precise time of any death can never be exact, but when this is paired with other evidence, I reach a conclusion I will be stating in my report.’

  ‘And what is it?’

  ‘This was not an accident or suicide. I intend to show you this was also murder.’

  Ridpath stayed silent.

  The doctor continued speaking as if lecturing a room of attentive students. ‘How did I reach this conclusion? As well as the questions about the time of death, there are other factors that make me think this man was murdered.’

  ‘Such as?’ Ridpath was used to playing the straight man. Ernie Wise to the doctor’s Eric Morecambe.

  The assistant tilted the corpse so the burnt and blackening back was showing. It had a deep incision down its centre. ‘Despite the charring of the epidermis, there is still evidence of the pooling of blood along the back and the back of the legs, suggesting—’

  ‘The body lay on its back for a long time after death, before it was moved into the sitting position where it was found,’ said Sophia.

  Dr Schofield sniffed again. ‘I would ask you not to interrupt me again, young lady, or perhaps you would prefer to perform this post-mortem?’

  Ridpath deflected the tension by asking a question. ‘So the body was definitely moved?’

  ‘Definitely is not a word in my lexicon, Ridpath. But that is my conclusion from the available facts. It is most unusual for corpses to get up from a horizontal position and then walk over to sit down on a chair.’

  Ridpath thought for a moment. ‘You said there were other factors, Dr Schofield?’

  The doctor pointed to the head. Obligingly the assistant pointed to the left side of the face, and rolled down the skin to reveal the bone beneath. ‘See there, just above the occipital bone in the area where it meets the temporal and parietal bones. Three depressions from a hammer or some other blunt object.’

  Ridpath could see the three round depressions in the bone just behind the ear. The depressions were surrounded by flakes of blackened skin, scrapes of hair and a reddy-yellow open blister of a wound. Ridpath’s gorge filled with bile again and he retched, but didn’t vomit.

  The doctor carried on, oblivious to Ridpath’s discomfort. ‘Such a wound is normally caused by a ball peen hammer, the one with the rounded end. A small one, though, less than three-quarters of an inch in circumference. You know, I’ve seen the post-mortem reports from the Yorkshire Ripper case. His victims displayed similar injuries and we know he used such a weapon to render them unconscious.’

  ‘Enough to cause death?’ asked Ridpath.

  ‘Possibly. Certainly bad enough to give Mr Brennan an extremely painful headache. And there’s more.’

  Ridpath raised his eyebrows.

  ‘A total absence of soot and smoke in the lungs suggests he was already dead when the fire was started.’

  ‘No longer breathing?’

  ‘Exactly. Again, this is not conclusive. According to the literature, about twenty per cent of all burn victims have no soot in their lungs, but when taken with the other factors, it means I can only reach one conclusion.’

  ‘He was already dead when the fire was started.’

  ‘I’m so glad we agree, Ms Rahman.’

  Chapter Thirty

  Ridpath stood on the pavement outside the mortuary, dying for a fag. The queasiness from the Big Mac had long since vanished to be replaced by a strong desire for nicotine.

  This was the first time he had felt this way for a long time. Ever since he had come out of hospital after his bout with pneumonia, he had told himself then he was never going to smoke again and, so far, he had kept his promise.

  Until now.

  He needed something to fill his lungs and rid them of the stench of the mortuary. It was all over him; in his hair, on his skin, all over his clothes.

  He checked his jacket pockets, searching for a dimp that may have secreted itself in the lining.

  Nothing.

  He was tempted to ask one of the doctors walking by if they could spare him a fag, but didn’t. He had already sent Sophia back to the coroner’s office with the excuse he wanted her to chase up the lab results on the Joseph Brennan case. In reality, he wanted to be alone to think.

  He forced himself to take three deep breaths. He really wanted to talk to somebody now, to help him clarify his thoughts. What he really needed was Charlie by his side. With his single-minded message of ‘evidence, evidence, nothing else matters but the evidence’.

  But Charlie was miles away, stuck at home and halfway through a bottle of whisky. He could ring Mrs Challinor, but better to talk to her in person. And Claire Trent would just blow him off unless he brought her something more concrete than the murder of a homeless man, possibly killed by a person or persons unknown. And the death of an unemployed worker, again possibly killed by a person or persons unknown.

  Was there a link between the two deaths? They both died in a fire and they both had a message in orange paint near the bodies, but was that enough?

  The MO for both deaths was very different; one died from a blow to the head and the other from a slashed throat. Was the message just a coincidence? If he looked around Manchester, would he find thousands of spray-painted PLAY THE GAME messages? Was it the signature of a particularly ghoulish graffiti artist? A sort of ‘Kilroy was here’ with an attitude?

  In his bones, Ridpath felt sure the deaths were linked. But feelings weren’t evidence as Charlie always told him. ‘Feelings don’t stand up in a bloody court of law.’

  It was at times like this he really missed working with a team. Normally, he would go back, tell his boss or one of the other team members the post-mortem findings and they would work out a plan of action.

  But here he was stuck outside a mortuary on his own. He even regretted sending Sophia back early. She had a good brain and at least he could have bounced some ideas off her.

  The phone rang.

  He looked down at the screen. Polly. ‘Hi, Poll, what’s up?’

  ‘I just thought I’d remind you I have another parents’ evening tonight. This time it’s the Year 4s. You will be back in time to look after Eve, won’t you?’

  ‘Of course, and I hadn’t forgotten.’ He crossed his fingers. It didn’t count if you told a white lie with your fingers crossed. At least that’s what his mum had said when he was growing up.

  ‘Good, I have to be at the school by six thirty, so can you be back before then?’

  ‘OK,’ he tried to make his voice sound excited.

  ‘Are you OK, Ridpath?’

  He decided to tell Polly the truth. ‘Just finished a post-mortem. A man burnt to death.’

  ‘Sounds awful. Why don’t you go home now? Mrs Challinor won’t mind, surely. Take a long bath and relax.’

  ‘Just a few things to do and then I’m heading straight back.’

  ‘Good, see you later. Love you.’

  ‘Love you too.’ The phone went dead.

  What should he do?

  Stop feeling sorry for himself for a start. Act, don’t react. Another one of Charlie’s mantras. Christ, he should compile a book of them.

  He dialled Sophia’s number. ‘It’s Ridpath. I need you to do something. Can you find the number of a Charest Fashions of Back Piccadilly? I want the CCTV footage from the camera mounted on the wall above their door.’

  ‘What if they won’t give it to me?’

  ‘If they’re difficult, just remind them you can get a court order. It’s one of our powers as coroner’s officers.’

  ‘Oh, I like that, Ridpath, feels almost powerful.’

  ‘Don’t let it go to your head, Sophia. We hardly ever use them. Simply asking politely is usually more ef
fective.’

  ‘Are you coming back tonight? There’s some stuff you have to sign.’

  ‘Can it wait until tomorrow?’

  ‘I suppose so, nothing is urgent.’

  ‘I’ll do it tomorrow then. Can you get onto Charest Fashions ASAP?

  ‘Will do. Oh and Ridpath, thanks for the invite to the post-mortem. I really enjoyed it, but Dr Schofield is a piece of work, isn’t he?’

  He would never understand young people. How could a post-mortem be ‘enjoyable’?

  ‘He may be a “piece of work”, Sophia, but he’s the best forensic pathologist we have. If you want to be invited again, I suggest you send him a note thanking him for allowing you to attend.’

  ‘Message understood, Ridpath.’

  ‘Get the CCTV footage ASAP, Sophia.’ He clicked off the phone. This was a good test for her. Did she have the moxie for an investigation? She was wonderful at the bureaucracy of the coroner’s court, but he needed something more. Somebody who got their teeth into an investigation and just wouldn’t let go. A clone of him, basically.

  Now he was moving forward, he felt much better. Didn’t need a cigarette any more. He pulled out the phone again and called Mrs Challinor this time.

  ‘It’s Ridpath. Your suspicions were correct. It looks like the homeless man in central Manchester was murdered. It may also be tied into the death of Joseph Brennan in Wythenshawe. Dr Schofield believes that was murder too. We’ll know more when the lab results come in. I’ll call Ted Jones and Ron Pleasance to give them a heads-up.’

  ‘I won’t ask them to reopen the case until we receive the post-mortem reports from Dr Schofield, just in case he changes his mind.’

  Ridpath thought for a moment. ‘That’s probably best, no point in stirring up the hornet’s nest until we can be certain. And one more thing, Mrs Challinor…’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘I won’t be coming back in this evening.’ He paused for a moment thinking whether to tell another white lie but pushed on with the truth instead. ‘I stink after the post-mortem, so I need a bath, plus Polly has to do another parents’ evening tonight. I hope it’s OK. Call me if you want more. If not, I’ll see you tomorrow morning and give you a full briefing. I know it’s Saturday, but you’re usually in.’