‘And what about when it’s up to temperature? Couldn’t somebody have added a second body then?’
He laughed, his head shaking a second time. ‘Not if they were interested in living. The cremator runs at around 1,800 degrees Fahrenheit, but not only that – there’s a safety mechanism, which means that the door is clamped shut until the unit has cooled down to a safe temperature.’
‘But the fact remains that three hip prosthetics were found following one cremation?’
‘And no bloody way of explaining it. I’ve checked with the boss. Mr Broome had what we term an open casket, which means that it wasn’t sealed until right up to him being placed into the cremator.’ He raised his head from where he’d been staring down at his hands, working away at trying to remove the dirt from under his fingernails. ‘I saw the body and I can tell you there is no way that anything could have been hidden.’ Pulling back his sleeve, he glanced at his watch. ‘Is there anything else? I really do have to get on or it will be another black mark against me.’
‘You seem to have a difficult relationship with Mr Beeton?’ Gaby said, her voice soft.
‘You could say that. He demands absolute commitment and doesn’t like that I have to leave early in order to pick up my daughter from school on the odd occasion she’s unable to take the bus. He doesn’t seem to get that as a single dad I don’t have a choice in the matter.’
‘He doesn’t appear to be the most sympathetic of individuals.’
‘You’re telling me! The things I could tell you …’
Chapter 16
Owen
Monday 3 August, 4.05 p.m. St Asaph Hospital
‘Ah, Owen, it’s grand to see you. Do take a seat – and you’ve brought coffee too. Thank you,’ Rusty Mulholland said, peeling back the lid of the cup set in front of him and taking a long sip. ‘I was only thinking what I’d give for a decent drink right now. I believe that congratulations are in order, by the way? You must be over the moon.’
Owen had entered Rusty’s office after a brief knock, a large brown envelope clutched under his arm and a couple of take-outs in his hands. While he felt he had a good relationship with the often taciturn senior pathologist, interrupting him without warning wasn’t his normal way of working, hence the coffee pacifier.
‘Indeed. Although I do seem to be hitting the caffeine rather hard. My daughter certainly has a fine pair of lungs.’
‘She’s in practice for when she’s in a relationship, no doubt,’ he replied, his voice taking on a dry note. ‘I hear you’ve called her after Kate’s sister. I always thought Angelica a beautiful name.’
‘Yes, well. It was the right thing to do,’ Owen said, flipping open the envelope and shuffling through the pages to select the one he wanted. It was still far too early for him to talk about – let alone think about – his wife’s sister. Angelica’s birth was their way of drawing their line through that unhappiest of times. ‘I know you’re a busy man but something’s cropped up with one of your recent autopsies that I’d like to run by you, if I may?’
‘Really. One of mine, you say.’ Rusty shifted his glasses into place from where they’d been perched on his forehead, his long slender fingers reaching for the top document. ‘Duncan Broome. That wasn’t too long ago, only a few weeks if I remember rightly,’ he said, turning to his computer and logging on to the system. After a moment he added, ‘Here it is. Died on the 1st of July here in St Asaph’s. There was some question as to the cause of death as, apart from bilateral hip replacements and a pacemaker insertion, he was fit and well.’
‘And anything suspicious with your findings?’
‘Not a thing. Cerebral haemorrhage, which links to a fall he’d suffered a few days previously. So, all very straightforward. I met with the daughters. Nice women. Clearly devastated.’ He twisted back in his seat, his expression frank. ‘Is there anything else I can help you with or …?’
‘I’m not sure if I’m honest.’
‘I’m happy to be used as a sounding board. Sometimes a different viewpoint is all that’s needed.’
The problem was that Owen didn’t have a clue what he was looking for, if anything. The likelihood was that Martin Penrose was telling them complete porkies but that was far from the impression he’d given them. The other thing of course was that information was always on a need-to-know basis in police work but what the hell. If you couldn’t trust a doctor then you couldn’t trust anyone.
He placed his already half-empty cup back on the desk and withdrew the second sheet of paper. ‘Before we go into that can I ask if there’s anything you can tell me about an Olive Johnson, aged ten?’
Rusty steepled his fingers, his blue eyes suddenly sharp behind his lens. ‘Another one of mine, I believe. This investigation wouldn’t have anything to do with the department, would it, because if so I’m not sure if I should be—?’
‘No. Nothing like that or, at least I don’t think so. In fact, most unlikely. I only need to ask if she’d ever had a hip replacement?’
‘A hip replacement? Improbable in a ten-year-old but not impossible if she’d been suffering from something like juvenile arthritis,’ he said. ‘But in Olive’s case, no. I’m certain that her problems, while diverse, didn’t include damage to her joints. You’re intriguing me with this line of questioning, Owen.’
‘More like puzzling myself,’ he replied. ‘So, what would you say to three prosthetic hip replacements being found in a cremator when the last two bodies to be cremated were Olive Johnson and Duncan Broome?’
Rusty sat back in his chair, peering at him over the top of his cup, a thoughtful expression now in place. ‘I can see your difficulty due to the rarity of three-legged corpses,’ he said, the hint of a smile on his lips. ‘You’re sure it’s not a mistake with the cleaning out of the cremator between … er … guests? As I’ve said, Duncan Broome is known to have had two hip replacements and, no matter how incompetent his surgeon might have been, it’s unlikely a spare hip would have gone unnoticed during the routine post-op X-ray they all have to undergo. The odd watch maybe but—’
Owen joined Rusty in a brief chuckle. ‘As sure as I can be, bearing in mind that the person responsible for cleaning it out was the one who came to us in the first place.’
‘Good point. So either someone with a prosthetic hip was placed in the coffin along with Duncan Broome or somehow slipped into the cremator after his coffin? An interesting, rather unique method of body disposal.’
Owen shook his head. ‘Not possible, I’m afraid. With the temperature safety mechanism, there’s no way of opening the door until the cremator has cooled. Also the groundsman told me that Mr Broome had a morbid fear of being buried alive and specifically requested an open coffin right up to just before he was cremated. There’s some story about his mother in the Eighties being verified as dead by some junior doctor or other. The nurses were washing the body when they noticed her chest rising. Scared the bejesus out of them, apparently.’
‘I’m not bloody surprised.’
‘You can appreciate my confusion. If there’s no possibility of an additional body hidden in the coffin and we’ve ruled out Olive Johnson as ever having had a prosthesis then it’s right back to the drawing board.’
‘Not quite. You’re further on than you think, Owen.’ Rusty picked up the empty cups and, after throwing them in the bin, rested back in his chair, his hands clasped behind his head. ‘Somewhere along the way a spare metal hip has found its way into the crematorium. What we need to do is to find the owner.’
‘Easier said than done. It’s not as if it’s likely to have any evidence attached to it after the temperatures they’ve been exposed to.’
‘No. Not at all,’ he said, unclasping his hands and leaning across the desk. ‘You wouldn’t happen to have brought them with you by any chance? There’s a huge amount to tell from the prostheses themselves by someone like me just examining them,’ he continued, his gaze resting on the bulky envelope sat between them on the desk.
Owen returned his look. ‘Yes, in the faint hope you might have any ideas. It’s unlikely there’ll be any forensics but—’
‘Noted.’ Rusty removed a pair of gloves from the box behind his desk and slipped them on before reaching inside the envelope.
Each artificial hip was in its own clear plastic bag, the metal now black and marked instead of smooth and shiny. Rusty removed them, examining each in turn, running his index finger over the surface. ‘What do you know about hip replacements, Owen?’
‘A lot more than I did this morning,’ he said with a grimace. ‘But I’m far from an expert.’
‘Okay, I promise I’ll keep it simple. Basically, a total hip replacement is made up of three parts. A metal shaft that’s pointed at one end. The opposite end is flat and smooth, which allows it to work with the head,’ he added, pointing to the separate metal sphere about the size of a large marble. ‘This ball is normally covered in a polyethylene cap but obviously, as a plastic, its melting power isn’t like that of the stainless steel or cobalt chrome, which are the metals of choice for the primary parts.’ He lifted his head. ‘Are you still following me or …?’
‘Just! So, what about the differences in the sizes and the reason I asked about Olive Johnson?’ Owen said, pointing to the much smaller third prosthesis.
‘That’s a grand question, Owen, but one that’s easy to answer. Different-sized people need different-sized prosthetics. Here we have two prostheses belonging to a large male,’ he said, pointing to the shoulder of the implant and placing the two side by side. ‘While it’s not conclusive that they were taken from the same person, there is a strong possibility. The one on the right is much smaller. It’s very easy to see why it might have led you astray but I’d hazard a guess that it’s been taken from the body of a very small adult female, maybe even of Asian ethnicity simply because it’s well known that they need smaller prosthetics.’
‘Okay, so how do we go about finding out one way or the other? It’s not as if they’re going to have their name and address carved into the metal now, is it?’
Rusty threw back his head and laughed. ‘Actually you’re not too far off the mark, Owen.’
‘I’m sorry, you’ve lost me completely now.’
Rusty grinned. ‘With the huge upsurge in medical litigation and the like, particularly around the region of prosthetics, I thought it would be obvious but perhaps not.’ He opened one of the bags and, dropping the artificial joint into his gloved palm, held it out for Owen to see. ‘There, on the shaft right below where it meets the shoulder. The unique serial number.’
Owen’s eyes widened. ‘How do you know all this stuff?’
‘Because I’m a genius,’ he said, his shoulders shaking. ‘The part about the serial number is really only common sense – there needs to be a way of keeping track of all implants in case there’s a problem and they have to be recalled, although once in situ it’s usually too late to do anything about them. The National Joint Registry has a log of all artificial joints inserted in the British Isles over the last eighteen years.’ He pushed over the plastic bags, topping them off with a pair of gloves. ‘I have a meeting shortly but if you call out the numbers – your eyesight is better than mine – I promise to get back to you with the recipients’ names later.’
Chapter 17
Gaby
Monday 3 August, 4.10 p.m. St Asaph Police Station
Gaby arrived back at the station after a brief stop to pick up a bottle of ice-cold water, her mind on the hundred and one things she needed to achieve by the end of her shift and not on Clancy who had to repeat her name for her to take any notice.
‘Detective Darin, DS Davis is upstairs waiting in your office as per DCI Sherlock’s wishes. He had planned for you to take him on a tour of the station but, with the girl still missing, thought better of it. Instead he’s to shadow you for the remainder of your shift.’
Really! But all Gaby did was wave her hand in acknowledgement, when she’d much prefer to bang her head against the nearest wall. Her thoughts dragged her against her will back to Swansea and the DS that had made her life a misery. She hadn’t done any more about applying for the job but, if she didn’t want to be managed out of the door by Bill Davis, she’d better start thinking about it.
She’d only taken a step away from the desk and towards the flight of stairs that led to her office before her mobile kicked into action but her groan of annoyance quickly disappeared when she realised that it was Rusty.
‘Owen has just left. I take it things are busy back at the station and I wanted to check that you’re all right for this evening, Gabriella?’
She loved the way he pronounced her name – the soft burr of his Irish accent elongating the sound. It was a name she rarely heard except on the lips of her mother when she was shouting at her. The world was full of strong women but none stronger than her Italian mama who was determined that she was always in the right. Gaby’s brothers often teased her that the family resemblance she shared with her went a lot deeper than their hair, skin and eyes. She couldn’t see it herself.
‘Can I be a pain and push it back to seven instead of six? I was going to make pizza,’ she said, recalling her plan to drop into the local supermarket in her break instead of the working lunch she’d exchanged it for. Now she’d have to do her shopping on the way home and in the middle of rush hour too, which was all very stressful and exactly the reason why she hadn’t jumped back into the dating game after Leigh Clark.
‘How about you forget making dinner and I’ll bring something with me instead? After all there’s two of us to your one.’
‘Only if you’re sure?’
‘Perfectly. If you’re good enough to have my son along on a date then the very least I can do is to be flexible when your plans go awry. And anyway, I wouldn’t be offering if I wasn’t.’
Yes, she knew that only too well. Rusty would be the first to speak his mind and, with her mother’s genes flooding her veins, that wasn’t necessarily a good thing. Finishing the call with instructions about where to find the spare key, she sent off a quick text to Owen to be back at the station for a catch-up and headed for the stairs.
Bill Davis was just how she remembered, his receding hairline combed over to make the most of the wispy strands on show. His expression was dour but then she couldn’t remember having ever seen him smile. Sitting behind her desk with his fat fingers laced around the handle of her favourite mug, he looked as if he was making himself comfortable.
Gaby didn’t do the usual things she was meant to. The ready smile and welcoming babble were missing, as was the extended hand. Instead she hung up her bag on the hook behind the door and tilted her head in the direction of the corridor.
‘The grand tour will have to wait, Bill. We have an ongoing situation here.’
‘That would be DS Davis to you, Gaby.’
‘Well in that case, DS Davis, as the senior ranking officer in the room, I’m acting DI Darin to you.’ She framed the door, her hand on her hip. ‘And, unlike you, I don’t have all day to sit around drinking coffee,’ she added, staring pointedly at her mug. ‘I need to catch up with the team and it’s the ideal opportunity for you to see them in action.’
On pushing open the door to the incident room the first thing that hit her was the smell. The office was hot with sun streaming in through the one window which, in line with station regulations, was only able to open a few inches in case someone tried to either enter or leave the building unexpectedly. It wasn’t an unpleasant odour, more a mingling of stale coffee with an undertone of hot bodies layered with an assortment of perfume and aftershave – after all her years on the force, she’d come up against a lot worse. But she decided to leave the door open in the unlikely event that she could conjure up a through-draught of air.
It didn’t take her long to place her phone on her desk, her gaze taking in Malachy and Marie, who barely lifted their heads to acknowledge her return. She shoved all thoughts of Bill aside. The f
ocus of her attention was Ellie’s disappearance and where the hell she could have got to.
After walking over to the first whiteboard, she stopped in front of Ellie’s photo, concentrating on the heart-shaped face surrounded by a cloud of pale blonde hair. Gaby didn’t know what she hoped to find as she studied the girl’s translucent skin, stretched over finely etched cheekbones. There were no shadows under her eyes, nothing to indicate that she wasn’t exactly what she appeared. A perfectly happy and healthy ten-year-old. But clearly she wasn’t – something must have happened to make her world fall apart. The only problem was that Gaby and her team had no idea what. The school hadn’t been of any help but then she hadn’t really expected them to be. Young girls were very good at keeping secrets and if Ellie was being bullied … Gaby’s own personal experience was that her mother would have been the last person to know if she’d decided to keep it from her. It certainly wasn’t something that Anita had mentioned.
Gaby did her best thinking with a pen in her hand, in this case a black marker. Removing the lid, she started to add Ellie’s personal details under the photo. Her full name. Her age and other random information like a list of the clothes that she was thought to be wearing in addition to a description of the rucksack. She got as far as adding the colour and make of her trainers before the sound of Owen and Jax’s voices made her recap the pen and wait, her hip propped against the corner of the table as she stole a glance at her watch. Still a couple of minutes to go but with everybody in the room, she might as well get the meeting underway.
‘Okay, everyone. I’m going to start a little early. There’s a lot to get through and not all of it in relation to Ellie Fry but she’s obviously our biggest concern. But before we begin, I’d like to introduce you to DS Bill Davis who’s up from Swansea for a few days.’ She only continued after she’d spent a moment to introduce the team and give a brief precis of the disappearance. ‘Okay then. I presume I’m right in saying that there’ve been no further sightings?’
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