“Thank you, Tom. Proceed.” She smiled at him.
Tom bowed theatrically as if taking a curtain call.
“The body is clean, well groomed, with visible abrasions and bruising around the neck from a nylon rope. Distinct post mortem lividity is visible in the legs up to the thighs, as expected with the body having been found hanging vertically by the neck.”
“Could she have died somewhere else, in a different position perhaps, and been moved?” Whitehouse said.
Tom hesitated and shifted his feet. “I… er… don’t understand.”
“The lividity, Tom,” she said stabbing a finger at the cadaver’s legs, “What does it tell you about her death?”
Tom took a deep breath as his face lifted.
“Ah, yes, if she had died in a position other than the one in which she was found, then the lividity might be distributed differently, because it is dependent on gravity.”
Whitehouse nodded in approval as she chewed on a huge mouthful of sandwich.
“So does the pattern of lividity prove she died by hanging?”
“Er… no… it doesn’t prove it, but it is… consistent… with that possibility,” Tom said, emphasising the word ‘consistent’.
Whitehouse smiled broadly without bearing her teeth.
“Excellent word that. Do continue.”
Tom turned back to the cadaver and ran his eyes along the length of the dead woman.
“There is evidence of early saponification of fat and skin discolouration again… consistent… with death having occurred… how long has she been dead?”
“Aha!” Whitehouse mumbled through a mouthful of sandwich. “You have uncovered a major inconsistency. Elaborate please,” she twirled her free hand in the air like a conductor.
Tom hesitated and gathered his thoughts, resting his gloved hands on the cadaver’s knees.
“Saponification, which is the conversion of body fats to a soapy substance, usually occurs several weeks after death.”
Whitehouse nodded, swallowing food.
“And how long has she been dead?”
“We don’t know, exactly. The husband had not seen his wife for five to seven days, he’s not sure.”
“But certainly not weeks.”
“He says not.”
“How is this possible then, my young protégé?” Whitehouse said with a forced grin, before taking a huge bite out of her sandwich.
Tom paused.
“The husband could be wrong, or lying?” He offered tentatively, shrugging.
“Or?” Whitehouse prompted.
“Or… the house was sealed and the central heating on, set at around twenty four degrees Celsius… providing warm dry conditions that might accelerate the onset… perhaps?” He didn’t sound certain.
“Exactement,” she replied with a flourish of her hand. “Nevertheless, therein lies a point of potential great contention. We may never be absolutely certain from the forensic evidence alone of the time of her death, not without other clues and of course good old police work.” Whitehouse said.
He nodded agreeably.
“What about mentioning the negative findings as well?” Whitehouse said, sizing up her sandwich for another hungry bite.
Behind her on the wall was a sign that read: No eating in the autopsy room. No exceptions. Tom turned back to the body and ran a gloved hand along the arms, turning each one over and pausing at the elbows.
“There are no other signs of injury, no defensive wounds, no puncture or needle marks, er…” Tom began.
“Have you checked under the fingernails?”
Tom raised a finger and stooped down to examine the lily white cadaveric hands.
“Good point. I always forget that.”
He looked carefully.
“No signs of covert needle puncture under the finger nails.”
Whitehouse crunched through the iceberg lettuce and waited for Tom to continue. He seemed frozen and eventually turned to her, shrugging his shoulders.
“Anything else?”
“I would take a scraping from under her finger nails for analysis and DNA, and then a vaginal swab for semen.”
“But there was no suggestion of assault or rape?” Tom said.
Whitehouse wagged a finger at Tom and in so doing shed some lettuce out of her sandwich on to the tiled floor. She ignored it.
“Be one step ahead of the barristers or be destroyed in court. Make a habit of doing it, Tom, then you’ll never be caught out.
Tom scraped the fingernails into a container and proceeded to take a vaginal swab for semen.
“Right, let’s open her up,” Whitehouse said, picking up the next cheddar, lettuce and apple chutney sandwich from her clear plastic lunchbox.
The scalpel flashed and soundlessly carved a deep Y-shaped incision into the body from each shoulder down to the pubis. A power saw screamed and vibrated its way through the ribs. Tom carefully exposed the organs, examining each in turn as it slipped through his gloved hands like a blood-stained fish.
Then each organ was weighed before being stored in a white plastic container. Once emptied of its contents, Tom stared into the deep hollow of the eviscerated abdominal cavity.
“This uterus looks a little bulky to me,” Tom said, turning this way and that to gain different perspectives.
“What age was she again?” Whitehouse said, walking over to join Tom.
“Er… forty two,” Tom said, checking the tag tied to the body’s right big toe.
Dr Whitehouse looked at the uterus and raised her eyebrows.
“I agree. Well, open it up… carefully!”
Tom cautiously incised through the dark red uterine muscle until its contents gradually oozed out.
“Oh God,” he said quietly.
Tom’s scalpel stopped, suspended in mid air in gloves stained with dark, old blood: dead blood.
“Has it been there long enough for her to have been aware of it, you think?” Tom said.
Dr Whitehouse nodded continuously, her eyes mesmerised by the uterus as her chewing slowed until it stopped.
“I need to speak to Mr Candle.”
The half eaten sandwich hung forgotten in her hand.
TWENTY ONE
Jasper stumbled through the house, feeling like a stranger in his own home. Everything was familiar and yet simultaneously foreign to him; wherever he looked he was confronted by objects that evoked vivid memories. That was all the house seemed to represent to him now, a mausoleum of memories.
Like the three foot long hand-made wooden ship, HMS Victory, that he and Jennifer had bought while on honeymoon in Mauritius. Up until now it had been his pride and joy and he had loved walking into the living room and admiring it, displayed high on the mahogany mantelpiece. But as he stood and stared at it, he was overcome by the memory of that bright humid day when he and Jennifer had braved the dangerous road from Grand Bay and shared a scooter ride into Port Louis, leaving behind a spiral trail of pungent oil smoke. He recalled as if yesterday the smells of the market – fresh seafood, lobster, sweet chickpea delights coated in coconut and the ephemeral smells of curry, ginger and coriander.
“You like it, don’t you?” Jennifer had said playfully, as he walked around the HMS Victory, minutely crafted to the exact hand knotted rigging, portholes and gun decks.
“It’s over priced. Not worth it,” he remembered saying, trying to sound indifferent.
That was the day that he had spent too much of their limited budget on an expensive lobster dinner on the beach, beneath swaying palm trees as moonlight danced frivolously on the calm ocean. Barefooted in the soft sand and wearing only swimwear, they had satisfied their hunger, first on tender, butter grilled lobster with chilled Chablis, then later, on the long, secluded jetty that reached out to the moonlight in the bay.
At the airport, a three foot long box awaited them when they left. Somehow, Jennifer had found enough money to buy the HMS Victory. All she said, with a finger pressed against his mouth, w
as, “Because I know how much you love me.”
The words echoed around Jasper’s head as he stared at the vessel, a haunting reminder of what he had once been to his wife. It made him uncomfortable and he walked away from his pride and joy. Then he was faced with the framed photograph of the two of them atop Mount Kilimanjaro, taken perhaps ten years ago. Nuzzled close together in their padded, bright red mountain gear they looked so happy. He remembered Jennifer’s warm words whispered into his frostbitten ear.
“Can it get any better than this?”
He swallowed and turned the photograph face down on the polished, walnut side table.
Walking through the kitchen his eyes were drawn to the photograph of Charlotte’s two young children, Jack and Charlie, held against the fridge door at a playful angle by a ladybird magnet. Jennifer had adored her nephews and had unofficially adopted them as surrogate children, a desperate attempt to plug a void that she and Jasper could not.
Since that fateful day two years ago, it had seemed to Jasper that nothing was ever quite the same again. The look on Jennifer’s face had said more than any tearful words could have managed.
“They tell me that we will never have our own children, Jasper,” she had sobbed.
“They?” he remembered saying angrily, “Who are they?”
She had cried wet circles into the front of his shirt as her hands beat his chest in futile frustration.
“The specialists I’ve been seeing. Dr Morrison, Dr Zoekaart and you know, the other one who does fertility.”
“We’ll get another opinion. We’ll go to London. We’ll…” Jasper had protested, grabbing her wrists.
“How many more, Jasper? I’ve seen them all, I’ve been to London as well. I didn’t tell you, but Lottie arranged it for me.”
“When?”
“It doesn’t matter now. It’s done.”
Jasper tore his eyes away from the photo of Jack and Charlie, feeling the vice like grip of remorse closing in around his throat.
The house was packed with emotional time bombs, placed at intervals like landmines, ready to explode when least expected. Nothing was merely an item in the house any more, nothing was devoid of association and memories, nothing felt like his any longer.
Finding himself standing in their bedroom, Jasper was overcome by the stark emptiness left behind by Jennifer’s absence. This was the area she had filled with her smile and laughter, her delightful perfumed smells, now it was silent and lonely. He wandered into the bathroom and stared at her toothbrush, the splayed bristles a reminder of her recent presence. The vanity mirror had visible fingerprints near the edge, almost certainly Jennifer’s. They had been dusted by the SOCO’s during their forensic examination of the house.
Jasper opened the cabinet and looked through her most personal items that she would have used daily and would never use again. Opening some of her favourite perfumes, Jasper enjoyed their evocative scents as his mind re-lived joyous memories. Why had they allowed those good times to become just that – memories? A pang of remorse nauseated him as he reflected on the numerous missed opportunities, particularly more recently.
Suddenly, he froze, as his eye caught sight of a rectangular pink and white box behind her cosmetics. It was open and a foil blister pack of tablets protruded ever so slightly. Jasper felt the tic begin to tear at his face as he tried to understand what he was seeing. His mouth began to pull and soon his neck twisted to one side, always the left.
He picked up the packet with trembling fingers and read the date of the prescription. Mrs Jennifer Candle, six month repeat. It was current. He extracted the partially used blister pack and counted back the days. His mind swirled and nausea swept over him like a salty tide. This could not be.
He swung around and opened the small bin beneath the hand basin. Rummaging through tissues, empty toilet rolls, ear buds and cotton balls, he found an empty blister pack that matched those in the box. Jennifer had been taking these pills for some time.
He felt physically sick and dizzy with confusion, sitting down heavily on the edge of the copper slipper bath and covering his mouth with a trembling hand.
It made absolutely no sense. Why on earth was Jennifer taking the oral contraceptive pill?
TWENTY TWO
“The Candles are out. Please leave a message after the tone.”
Jasper sat at his desk, cradling the iPhone against his cheek as though he was nuzzling it. Having spent months loathing that voicemail message, all he wanted to do now was listen to Jennifer’s voice. He kept pressing redial, hanging on to her every mellifluous tone and nuance as the voicemail message played over and over in his ear.
The irony of the snuffing of this precious Candle ached deep within his conscience, piling on guilt that he was finding frustratingly difficult to deflect.
A gentle knock at the door disturbed his moments of self pity.
“Come,” he said quickly, as though a pause would draw attention to his state of deep reflection.
Stacey entered the room apologetically, carrying a square of note paper. Her customary black attire was brightened by the splash of a sunflower yellow scarf draped casually around her slender neck. Perhaps she felt the need to detract from the sombreness of black in the office.
“Hi Mr C, you all right?” she asked with a cautious smile.
Jasper nodded and forced a smile in return.
“What is it Stacey?”
She approached the desk, stooping to pick up an empty pizza box from the carpet before pushing the square of paper towards Jasper, past an empty whisky tumbler on the desk.
“Just a few messages for you, Mr C. Charlotte called again, but said it’s not urgent. A Mr Ferret called, desperate for an appointment, something about Edward Burns …” she shrugged her shoulders in response to the face of disapproval that Jasper made.
“What shall I tell him?”
Jasper stared at the note paper and sighed.
“Tell him my wife died.”
Stacey shifted her weight uncomfortably, still too young to know instinctively how to handle her grieving boss.
“O… K,” she said slowly.
“No, don’t say that. Just say I’ll get back to him,” Jasper said, rubbing his forehead. He could feel the tics becoming stronger again.
Stacey nodded.
“Also a message from a Dr Whitehouse at the coroner’s office, she said it is urgent.”
Jasper sat forward, his eyes suddenly brightening up.
“Is there a number?”
Stacey leaned forward and placed a slender finger with a manicured black nail on the note paper.
“It should be there.”
She turned to leave, pausing at the bed in the corner to pull the black quilt straight, then hesitated at the door.
“Can I get you anything, Mr C?”
Jasper was dialling the number on the note paper and looked up as he finished, pressing the iPhone to his ear.
“No, thank you, Stacey. Actually, yes, I need some new dicky dirts.”
Stacey nodded at the door with a wry smile.
“That’s shirts, right, white, size seventeen?” She raised her left eyebrow.
“You’re a quick study,” Jasper said, “and could I trouble you for some Eddie Grundies too, extra large?”
Stacey held up her hands and made a puzzled face, mouthing the word ‘what’.
“Underpants.”
She nodded again with a slight grin on her face and turned away to leave the room before pushing her head back around the door.
“Did you remember that Mrs Kowalski was in hospital, Mr C?”
Jasper clapped a hand to his forehead.
“Brad Pitt! Please call her and… what happened again?”
“Attempted suicide… overdose I think.”
Jasper held up his hand and turned away from Stacey as the call was connected.
“Hello, can I please speak to Dr Whitehouse, my name is Jasper Candle.”
TWENTY THREE
The office of the chief pathologist to HM Coroner, beyond the unmistakeable smell of formaldehyde, was not at all what Jasper had expected. The most vital and refreshing item in the stark square room was Dr Whitehouse’s flamboyant head of copper hair, a matted mane of iridescent curls that seemingly threatened insurgence at any moment.
“Thank you for seeing me at such short notice,” Jasper said, wiping the seat before sitting gingerly in the worn office chair.
The walls were adorned with certificates and commendations, all framed in plain black with a patina of dust and all hanging off kilter.
“I apologise for the state of my office, Mr Candle, it really is a work environment for me far more than an interface with the public.” Whitehouse said, as she replaced several glass jars filled with gruesome grey lumps floating in formaldehyde on a wooden shelf.
Whitehouse wore a creased, white laboratory coat over her green surgical scrubs. Jasper couldn’t help glancing at her yellow-cream gum boots as she sidled round the desk to her seat. They were flecked with blood and spatter – surely an oversight, he thought.
“Is the report on my wife ready yet?” Jasper asked.
There was a knock at the door and a woman burst in without looking up from the papers in her hand.
“That letter to Judge Goldberg for you to sign… ”
She stopped upon seeing Jasper.
“Excuse us please, Karen, I’ll attend to it later,” Whitehouse said, smiling but annoyed.
In the corner stood an X-ray viewing box, its central panel illuminating the chest X-ray of some unfortunate victim. Visible even to Jasper’s untrained eye was the opaque outline of a sharp instrument, resembling a letter opener, embedded deep in the chest.
The door shut quietly as the secretary exited.
“That’s not why I called you,” Whitehouse said, clasping her hands in front of her.
Jasper frowned and felt his heart skip a beat. Was this the prelude to unpleasant revelations about foul play?
“Is there a problem?” he asked, feeling the tics tugging at his cheek and the corner of his mouth, intruding on his pronunciation of certain vowels. He hoped she didn’t think he was drunk.
The Secret Anatomy of Candles Page 9