by Robert White
This was the backstage; definitely a no frills type of place.
A hospital trolley stood in the middle of the room.
Two uniformed Police officers and an undertaker’s assistant, were stripping the body of an elderly lady and tagging it. The three men all shared a joke. Life was going on in the midst of so much death.
The lady they worked on had died peacefully in her sleep but had not been visited by a doctor in recent weeks. Therefore, a Post Mortem was necessary. It was known as a ‘Coroners death.’
The second room of the three was accessed through a pair of heavy plastic swing doors.
A bright, white, sterile place, this was the room in which the Post Mortems took place.
Three specially grooved porcelain tables ran along the centre. They were little more than draining boards that disposed of the bodily fluids of the corpse.
Despite being spotlessly clean, this room had a smell unlike any other. Anyone, who has ever experienced the smell, never forgets it.
Death has its own bouquet.
The remainder of the room had the appearance of any other laboratory.
Lab technicians and a Pathologist worked methodically. One hummed a jolly chart tune as she weighed the internal organs of a corpse on the table.
The final room was the public face of the hospital morgue. No one cracked jokes or hummed tunes here. Known as ‘The Chapel’, this was the place where a body was taken for identification by a relative or friend of the deceased.
This room, much smaller than the other two was dimly lit. The concrete walls shrouded in purple velvet cloth. Piped music played softy, soothing the deaf.
The morgue staff would place a body on the table in the chapel. After attempting to cover any disfigurements with cloth, the Police officer in charge of the Coroner’s death would lead the relative in and the identification would formally take place. Anne Wallace had been formally identified at the murder scene.
The Chief hospital administrator met Robert Wallace and Sir Peter Davits in the hospital reception. They were expected. She was sorry for their loss.
The standard words of comfort were lost on Wallace and Davits. A walk along a maze of polished corridors, a short journey in a lift, and the two men stood in the morgue area. Sir Peter could sense Wallace’s discomfort in his surroundings.
Anne’s body had been removed from its cabinet and laid out in the chapel. The staff had done their best with the facial damage and had wrapped a shroud high around her neck to hide the death wound.
The two men stood in the doorway of the chapel. Davits rested his hand on the shoulder of his oldest and dearest friend.
“I’ll leave you two alone for a while, Robert.”
Wallace looked pale. He nodded to his Pathologist friend. “Thank you, Peter.”
Wallace took one stride inside the room and stopped. His emotions were about to overtake him. “Not yet.” He breathed deeply. Invisible needles pricked his eyes.
He walked slowly to the table where his only child lay. His leather soles sounded each slow pace on the tiled floor. Then, slowly, he knelt and stared. For several minutes he was unable to avert his eyes. He recalled the first time he had held her; a bundle of pure joyous life. She was so beautiful. She hadn’t cried as he had expected when he took her from her mother. She simply looked at him with those deep expressive eyes. He had loved her from that moment. The bond was forged. She had made their lives complete. His mind flicked through the pages of its own personal family album. Her first day at school; the red dress she insisted on wearing to every party. Her embarrassed smiles when her second teeth were late. It seemed only yesterday. He relived it all again, filled with the pride only a father can feel.
Robert took Anne’s lifeless hand, and although he’d expected it, the chill of her flesh shocked him. He spoke quietly. “Rest now my little one. Daddy’s here.”
For a second the famous voice failed him. He cleared the torment from his throat. “You were our greatest love. Some people could live their whole lives and never show the same strength and courage as you. If you can hear me now honey, and your mother and I believe that you can; remember we always loved you. Soon we will take you from this awful place. You know what must be done. I know you understand. Then we will take you home baby.”
Wallace stood and looked down at his daughters damaged features. With shaking hands, he stroked her hair. Finally the immensely proud man’s composure broke.
The tears began.
He knew he shouldn’t. He knew the pain it would bring, but he was helpless. He took hold of the shroud and gently pulled it away from Anne’s throat.
His revulsion was absolute. His whole body began to shake. His voice rose with each word unit it was a bellow.
“Whoever did this to you, will rot in hell.”
Davits heard his friend’s sobs. His heart was being torn from his chest. He looked around the door and saw Wallace gently replace the shroud and take out a handkerchief.
He watched as Wallace wiped his eyes, cleared his throat and stepped into the hallway.
“She’s all yours now Peter. I’ll be in the car when it’s over.”
Davits watched his friend walk from the morgue. He was grateful that Wallace had decided not to witness the Post Mortem operation. It would be almost impossible for Davits himself to remain detached. Things would be easier with his friend out of the way. He had to tell himself that it was what Anne would have wanted.
The morgue porter approached him, unaware of the Pathologist’s personal involvement. To the porter it was back to tune humming. He was a stocky man in his forties; his unusually long white hair in a ponytail. He chewed as he spoke.
“Shall I move her Doctor?”
Davits nodded and the porter pushed his trolley into the chapel. He rolled Anne onto it; just another corpse.
“She was a bonny little thing weren’t she?”
Davits was unable to stop himself. “Just be a little more careful with her and we’ll have less of your comments too.”
The porter looked mildly hurt. Why be careful with something that you are going to slice to pieces?
“Sorry Doctor.”
He moved Anne’s body into the pathology lab and placed her onto the centre table with more care than usual. He didn’t want the ‘Doc’ kicking off again.
Sir Peter looked down at the naked, empty vessel that had once been his Goddaughter. He clenched his teeth in grief and anger. He turned to the hospital pathologist who was to assist him. He removed a Walkman from his pocket and set it to record.
“I want to start with tissue samples from the throat wound. There is some blood in her hair. I want a separate sample of that. When I have completed the P.M, all forensic samples will go with me so I will need carrying equipment.”
Sir Peter selected a scalpel and the two men then started their ghastly task.
seventeen
David Stewart looked a little better. He had showered and shaved, a painful experience, but needed.
Thomas had brought some changes of clothing from Dave’s wardrobe at home. When Dave saw the jacket he had bought especially for his first date with Anne, the tears came again. He was still unable to fasten his own shoes or tie. Thomas reluctantly obliged.
Thomas was unmoved by Dave’s pain. “OK David, we have about an hour before we get into Court. As you know we are only allowed one bail application. If I attempt it now, we can kiss it goodbye. Once in the Court, all you have to do is confirm your identity. I don’t want you to make any other comment.”
Dave’s voice was flat, “So I’m going to jail?”
Thomas was nonplussed. “Yes.”
“You do realise what will happen to me in there don’t you?”
Thomas put his hand on Dave’s arm, the gesture as genuine as a Hong Kong taxi meter. “You will be well protected David. They don’t put Police officers in general population. You will be classed as rule 43.”
“Great, so I’ll be in solitary at best. At w
orst I’ll be sharing with some fucking child molester.”
Thomas stood. “It won’t be for long David. The committal will be in six weeks. You will be brought back to Court every week until then. If at any point we feel we have a good chance of bail we can apply on one of those appearances.”
“What’s the worst case scenario?”
Thomas snapped the catches on his briefcase. “Well, I suppose, if it goes all the way to trial, it could be six months.”
Dave put his head in his hands. Could it get any worse? Watching Thomas leave, he decided that his initial character assessment had been correct. Thomas was indeed a condescending twat.
Dave was to be transferred to the Court cells and Marshall and Jemson flanked him in the back seat of an unmarked Police vehicle. It was a short trip and the three men travelled in silence. The only sound being the occasional squawk of the Police radio. Despite the clear day, Marshall held a raincoat in his hand.
As the car approached the Courts, Marshall placed the raincoat over Dave’s head. It shocked the young man and at first he objected.
Marshall gripped Dave’s forearm. “Steady on son. Do you want every piece of shit in Risley to see your face on the front page of the Daily Mirror tomorrow?”
Dave murmured thanks from under the coat and the car pulled to a halt.
The area was a mêlée.
Newspaper and television teams surged towards the car. The usual crowd of baying public-spirited citizens closely followed them, hoping to get a glimpse of the triple killer. Dave was big news.
Shouted threats and press questions mingled together in Dave’s ears. The cacophony engulfed him. He had never been so scared. He was bundled over a pavement and through a doorway. The noise began to subside and he realised he was inside a corridor.
The coat came off and he stood looking straight into the face of Marshall. Dave found it strangely reassuring.
“Well, we got you here in one piece Dave,” said the Superintendent, who to Dave’s surprise, was smiling.
“Thanks.”
Dave looked into Marshall’s eye and saw something strange. He lowered his voice, “You believe me don’t you? You think I’m innocent.”
Marshall’s smile disappeared. He remained silent, turned on his heels and walked away.
Two burley prison officers who had already been briefed regarding the special nature of their charge immediately flanked Dave.
The taller of the two spoke, “Right lad, we will take you to your cell under the Court. When it’s your turn, we will escort you to the dock and stand with you. I don’t want any funny stuff in the Courtroom. After your appearance, we will escort you to the Remand Centre. Any property that you take with you will have to be cleared by us. We realise your problem, as does the Governor. You will be classed as ‘Rule 43’, but I’ll tell you now, you’ll still have to watch your back.”
Dave nodded, although he wasn’t taking much of the information in. His head was still spinning. Everything was happening so quickly. The two officers led him further along the corridor and past a row of occupied cells. They each contained several other prisoners who were appearing at Court that day. A spotty faced youth of about seventeen had managed to get his whole head out of the hatch of his cell door and was watching Dave approach.
“Hey! Piggy! Piggy! Come to see how the other half live?”
The youth screwed his face up into an evil sneer. “When they bend you over, pig, I’m gonna be first.”
Dave was close enough to the youth now that he could see he had the word “Banger,” tattooed on his forehead.
Bright.
As Dave got in line with the hatch he faked a trip, stuck his elbow out at a right angle and connected sharply with Banger’s nose.
Dave’s sarcasm oozed, “Oops! Sorry mate, floor’s really slippery.”
The youth was howling like a stuck pig and nursing his damaged nose. Dave’s escorts didn’t flinch. The taller man of the two simply turned to his partner and smiled.
“When Banger feels better, we’d better get him to mop that section of floor.”
Dave was placed alone in a cell at the end of the row. As the tall prison officer closed the door he spoke absently, “Oh, by the way, I nearly forgot Stewart. You have a visitor waiting. I’ll organise it now.”
Dave’s spirit rose in leaps. A visitor!
After what seemed like an age, Dave’s cell door was opened and he was led to an interview room where his company was waiting. Dave thought he was having an attack of déjà vu. Sitting at the graffiti ridden table was none other than his old employer, Steve Ross.
Ross had started out as a bouncer, working the doors of the roughest clubs in and around Sheffield. He’d dabbled in petty crime and some ‘contract’ muscle work for moneylenders. It was during this period he had been suspected of killing a night club doorman with a single punch. The man had refused him entry to his favourite drinking establishment. Ross was arrested but never charged.
A year after that drama, he opened his first club. Within five years, he was the most feared man in Yorkshire.
Now the proud owner of three nightclubs, which in truth, were only fronts for his main sources of income. Ross was now the picture of respectability. His massive shoulders encased in the finest silk suit. He rested shovel sized hands on the table. The minute he saw Dave, he stood and a broad smile revealed a gleaming gold tooth.
Once the two were alone, Ross’ smile disappeared and his fine, well-dressed, image was shattered by a voice that sent shivers down the spine.
“You seem to have got yourself in a mess son.”
Dave held both hands out for Ross to see. “Don’t be offended if I don’t shake hands Mr. Ross.”
Ross took Dave’s hands gently in his own and inspected them. “Cuffs?”
Dave nodded.
Ross shook his head. “Bastards, I could never understand why you didn’t stay with me Dave. I had big plans for you.”
Dave just smiled meekly.
Despite Ross’ reputation, which was well deserved, Dave couldn’t help but like him. He was intelligent and had a great sense of humour. He, like most Yorkshiremen, never forgot a good turn.
Ross returned to his seat and produced a box of cigarettes from a very expensive looking briefcase. The box appeared perfectly sealed. Dave was about to remind his old boss that he didn’t smoke when he spoke.
“Don’t open it. There are some items in there that you might need.”
Ross lowered his voice.
“Your old dad came to me yesterday. He told me as much as he knew. The coppers have been ‘round to your house asking questions. I used some favours to find out what they really have on you. It ain’t much. I know you Dave. You always worked well. This isn’t your style.”
Ross lowered his voice further, “Tell me who you need sorting. The boys will look after it. Just say the word and it’s done. Then, when you’re out, come back and work for me eh?”
Dave had finally found someone he could trust. Of all the people he could have chosen, he found it strangely comforting that honour and reliability surfaced in the form of a reputed gangster.
“Mr. Ross. Things are moving pretty quick for me right now. I’ve got a few ideas, but I need some more information. I can’t do anything in here.”
Dave paused, “You know I wouldn’t ask if it weren’t important. I do need a favour and it won’t be easy. I need something collecting from my house and I need it kept safe.”
Ross’ smile returned at the mention of the favour. His dental jewellery gleamed. “Collection is my business Dave.”
Wallace and Davits were on the move again. It had taken a while to recover Ann’s effects from the Police. Wallace had to threaten the officer with a personal telephone call to the Chief Constable.
Wallace looked even more tired. He spoke to his driver, “How much further to the University, George?”
“About ten minutes sir.”
Wallace then turned to his friend. Th
ey had not spoken about the Post Mortem since leaving the hospital.
“So Peter, what were your first impressions?”
Sir Peter held a copy of the Police Pathologist’s preliminary report. “From what I saw today Robert, my conclusions are very similar to this.” He tapped the file and continued, “I think he missed some things though. There is nothing in here about testing a blood sample from Anne’s hair. It could be her own of course, but I have a feeling that it isn’t. A knife with a serrated blade caused the throat wound. Probably the one from the second bag found in Stewart’s garden, which was very convenient. She had some scalp damage, presumably from being dragged by the hair. Her nose was fractured and she suffered some dental damage, punches likely; someone very strong. Then of course there is the bruising to her wrists.”
Sir Peter looked across at his friend to see how he was dealing with the hard information. Wallace sat rigidly in his seat and looked straight ahead.
He nodded occasionally. Finally he spoke, “Thank you Peter. It must have been a difficult task for you.” He paused, the information settling in his mind, “Did you say bruising to her wrists?”
“Yes, she was bound.”
“If Stewart were responsible for this, why would he tie her up?”
Both men lapsed into thoughtful silence until they arrived at Manchester University.
Professor John Staples met Wallace and Davits at the door of his office, the Pathologist, holding a large cardboard box. It contained the samples he had taken earlier and Anne’s personal effects.
Staples looked more like a reject from Woodstock than an esteemed Professor of Forensic Science and Criminology.
His long greying hair brushed his shoulders and small round, ‘John Lennon’ style glasses, gave him the look of a middle aged rock star.
If Davits hadn’t recommended Staples, Wallace would have turned around there and then. Staples saw the look on Wallace’s face. He smiled and offered his hand. “You must be Mr. Wallace. Please allow me to introduce myself. You obviously don’t care for my taste in clothes Wallace, but I’m the best Forensic man in the country.”