After the Flood

by Peter Turnbull

  The youths, clearly shaken, turned smartly to their right, like soldiers in obedience to some silent command, filed smoothly out of the room and ran up the stairs.

  Half an hour later the police had total possession of the house.

  Shetland turned to the three plainclothes officers. ‘Well, gentlemen…how shall we do this?’

  ‘Let’s not tear the house apart,’ Hennessey said; ‘that would be too clumsy. I suggest we look for some telltale sign of a body being concealed. If we don’t find it, we might have to resort to tearing it apart.’

  ‘A sign?’

  ‘A patio that’s not part of the original design, floorboards that have been splintered at the sides or ends, a six-foot-long one-foot-wide block of concrete…that sort of sign. Look in places where a body could be hidden, bricked-up cupboards, that sort of thing.’

  ‘Done this before?’ Shetland smiled.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, it makes sense anyway. Sergeant!’

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘Did you hear what Chief Inspector Hennessey just said?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Right. Organise your men; make sure they know what they’re looking for.’

  ‘Sir.’

  Constables searched the attic, constables searched the cellar, but it was in the back garden that the body was found. A nervous and clearly shaken young constable entered the communal room and said, ‘Excuse me, sir, gentlemen, but could you come outside? It just…well, it just looks like a grave.’ And this not 120 seconds after the constables had been dispersed throughout the house.

  The back garden was small and seemed to Hennessey to be a perfect square of about twenty feet by twenty. An old wooden shed stood to the left-hand side; it was beginning to rot—the felt on the roof had cracked; and a concrete path ran down the centre of the garden to the fence. The garden itself seemed to have been trampled into nothing more than two strips of new, naked soil either side of the pathway. A simple but effective barbecue made of loose house bricks and a grill covered with foil suggested the reason for the lack of vegetation. It was not difficult for the police to imagine well-attended cookouts during the summer evenings, or parties that spilled out of the house and into the garden. Beside the barbecue was a strip of concrete, approximately six feet long and two feet wide, flush with the surface of the soil. In itself, thought Hennessey, it did not look suspicious. Each successive tenant of the house would have glanced at it once and then dismissed it. Plenty of youths down the years had probably stood or sat on it while tucking into their grilled sausages, yet look for a body somewhere on the premises and the patch of concrete seemed to shout loudly. Hennessey saw what the young constable meant: it did look just like a grave.

  ‘We’ll need a pneumatic drill,’ Shetland said. ‘Can you send for one please, Bob?’

  When disintegrated by the drill, the concrete revealed itself to be two feet deep; it covered, rather than encased, a human form, wrapped in heavy-duty plastic sheeting, the sort Hennessey had noticed that builders often use to protect unfinished work from sudden downpours.

  ‘Looks like your hunch was right, George.’ Shetland smiled grimly, a grimace almost.

  Hennessey nodded in response and allowed himself time to wish that Shetland hadn’t said ‘hunch’, disliking as he did the seemingly unstoppable encroachment, invasion even, of Americanisms into the Queen’s English. ‘Intuition’ would have been better, even ‘guess’ would have been acceptable, but ‘hunch’, no. He was not sorry to see his retirement on the horizon. The day that British policemen had ‘hunches’ was the time for him to rent that allotment he had long promised himself. ‘It will, I think,’ he said as he looked at the still-shrouded object, ‘transpire to be a male corpse, in his early twenties when he died. And if identification is possible, it will prove to be the body of Andrew Quinlan.’

  ‘I’ll phone for our scene-of-crimes people and the duty pathologist; they’ll have to be here before we remove him. Poor lad.’

  ‘It’s a male skeleton, all right.’ Hennessey looked into the grave. ‘It would have foxed me if it was female, but it’s not, and that’s one step nearer to it being the skeleton of Andrew Quinlan.’

  Hennessey could not help but notice the contrast. The pathology laboratory at York District Hospital, though well equipped, was modest by comparison to that at St James’s in Leeds. Here were numerous stainless-steel tables, and a large glass screen ran the length of one wall of the room, beyond which were seats arranged in tiers, all at the moment empty. St James’s was, after all, a renowned teaching hospital, the largest in Europe.

  Hennessey stood in the obligatory green coveralls, attending the post-mortem at the invitation of Inspector Shetland. The pathologist was a cleanshaven man, who appeared to be in his early thirties, and was assisted by a short, slightly built laboratory technician. The fifth person in the room lay on the stainless-steel table, clearly human, clearly almost fully decomposed, a few shreds of very durable and resistant flesh preventing the remains from being fully skeletal.

  The pathologist pulled the microphone, which was attached to an anglepoise arm, which in turn was attached to the ceiling, so that it remained above the table at a level with his mouth. The date is the eighth of April, the time is fourteen hundred hours. This is case number whatever on my list please, Susan—Dr Dunn, this is, in case you do not recognise my dulcet tones. So, to business. The body is that of a male, and an adult, but the sutures in the skull have not fully knitted, suggesting that he was less than twenty-five years old when he died. The body is in an advanced state of decomposition. All bones are present, no body part has been removed. There is no obvious sign of trauma to the body. Could you pass the tape measure please, Mr Ives?’ Mr Ives took a retractable metal tape measure from the instrument trolley and handed it to the pathologist. The deceased,’ Dunn spoke for the benefit of the microphone, ‘was of short stature in life, measuring only five feet three or four inches in height, or about 160 centimetres in Eurospeak,’ He looked across the room at the two police officers. ‘I’m a Eurosceptic’

  ‘So am I,’ Shetland and Hennessey, who stood close to each other, replied in unison, then turned and grinned at each other.

  ‘Rabies and bankruptcy, that’s what we’ll get from being in Europe,’ Hennessey whispered, respecting the sanctity of the pathology lab. ‘The history of Europe is full of bilateral and multilateral trading agreements, some of which have lasted longer than the human lifespan, but all of which have been dissolved, and the European Union will be just another to add to the list. So my son said. He’s a barrister.’

  ‘Bloody Brussels, even told us what size desks we have to put our computers on.’

  ‘Gentlemen, please.’ Dunn raised an eyebrow. The tape recorder is very sensitive, it’ll pick up. even your hushed conversation. The odd aside is acceptable.’

  The two officers fell silent, but Hennessey thought Dr Dunn’s comment rich—he did start the discussion after all.

  ‘Can’t be more precise about the height because skeletons shrink as the cartilage contracts and the fleshy soles of the feet decay. But he was a short chap in life. The teeth are exposed and indicate that he was white European in terms of his ethnicity.’ Dunn asked for a metal rod to be handed to him from the instrument trolley and this he forced between the upper and lower sets of teeth and prised the jaws apart. They gave with a loud crack, ‘Yes…the teeth in fact confirm white European ethnic grouping…the Asian and Caucasian skulls are very similar, and easily mistaken for each other, but the teeth are different, and our friend here was Caucasian. He had had some dental work done—a filling here and there, very old dentistry, and probably from childhood, there’s something worn about the fillings. I think he probably neglected his teeth towards the end of his life but they’re all there. He hadn’t lost a single tooth, indicating a young man.’

  ‘Fitting the description?’ Shetland hissed.

  ‘Yes,’ Hennessey nodded.

  ‘I’ll e
xtract a tooth and do a cross-section; that’ll give his age at death, plus or minus twelve months, but the presence of all his teeth reinforces the impression given by the skull not having fully knitted, that this man died very young, in his early twenties. If you know who his dentist was, his records may still be available; but I think this fella has been in the clay for a long time, and dentists are obliged to keep records for only eleven years after the patient’s last treatment.’

  ‘If it is who we believe it to be, he has been buried for about thirty years.’ Hennessey spoke softly but clearly.

  ‘Really? Rather pushing our luck in respect of dental records then, ain’t we?’ Dunn paused. ‘I’ll do what I can to assist in identification, but a lot of effort appears to have gone into hindering that.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘He appears to have been naked when he was buried. There are no remains of any form of textile, no matter how rotted, but had he been buried in clothing I would have expected to find non-perishable items—zip fasteners, buttons—among the “remains”, bra suspender hooks in the case of a female corpse.’

  ‘Not exclusively female,’ Shetland said, and Hennessey allowed himself a brief chuckle. Dr Dunn and Mr Ives also shared the joke, and the solemnity of the proceedings was briefly lifted.

  ‘So…’ Dr Dunn pondered the corpse, drumming his fingers on the rim of the stainless-steel table as he did. ‘So, what did kill you, my friend? Speak to me. Hello?…’ He leaned forward and asked for a pair of tweezers to be handed to him. Holding the tweezers delicately, he poked into the ribcage of the skeleton. ‘Unless I am mistaken, this is a maggot cocoon. Laid by a fly, a common housefly. It points to the death taking place during the summer months, possibly out of doors.’

  ‘That fits quite neatly with what we suspect about his death,’ Hennessey said. ‘He, if it is who we think it is, remained with one other young man in student accommodation after their mates had gone home at the end of their final year.’

  ‘I see.’ Dr Dunn laid the cocoon in a glass dish. ‘Doubtless you’ll be wanting to have a chat with the other man?’

  ‘Doubtless we will.’

  ‘Well, I can tell you he died a violent death.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Yes. Turning to the mouth once again, I note a distinct red hue about the teeth—faint, but it’s there. It’s caused by the bursting of blood vessels that occurs during bouts of violence. He could, for example, have been strangled and put up a struggle. Other indications of a violent death, bruising, petechiae—’

  ‘Petechiae?’ Hennessey asked.

  ‘Small red spots in the inside of the eyelid. They often occur as a result of violence, and other causes, it must be said. But such indications disappeared a long time ago as his flesh decomposed. It would have rotted from within by primary invaders. Second ‘The absence of more cocoons laid by flies, the secondary invaders, indicates that he was buried quickly after his death. Probably not placed in a prepared grave, because at least one fly had time to find him, but one dug immediately afterwards. The grave seemed to me to be about two feet deep, in good stone-free soil. A strong man could have dug the hole in a few hours, within the space of a summer’s night. He would have made a bit of a noise, but he would have had to take that risk, and that’s really your territory. Then he would have been covered over very quickly. That might, just might, indicate premeditation. But again, that’s your territory.’

  ‘Even so, why do you say that, Dr Dunn?’ Shetland asked.

  ‘Well, there didn’t seem to be a layer of soil between the concrete and the bones. You see, the absence of signs of large-scale primary-invader activity means he was covered over immediately he was put in the grave. Had his murder been unpremeditated, then I would have expected the murderer to dig the grave, put him in and then cover the body with a layer of soil, to give him some time to go and buy some cement. But in the event it appears that cement was poured directly on to the body, indicating that the cement had already been acquired prior to the murder. I can’t see students, or recent graduates, doing building work on property they are renting. But your province, not mine.’

  ‘None the less it’s a valid observation. Thank you.’

  ‘I think I have come to the end of this p.m.’ Then, for the benefit of the tape recorder, he said. The cause of death is not determined, but indications given by the red hue in the teeth indicate that this person met a violent end. I’ll take a cross-section of one of his teeth and work out his age. I’ll be able to let you have that information tomorrow forenoon at the earliest. But he was a short, finely made young man when he died.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Shetland smiled his thanks, as did Hennessey. That’s plenty for us to be going on with.’

  Walking out of the imposing Gothic nineteenth-century part of St James’s to the car, Shetland glanced at his watch. ‘Four thirty, close enough to the end of the working day for me.’

  ‘And me,’ said Hennessey. ‘I put in more overtime than I get early finishes. I can square a four-thirty finish with my conscience.’

  ‘You’ll be travelling back to York?’

  ‘Yes.’ Hennessey found that he and Shetland fell easily into step with each other and occasionally nudged shoulders.

  ‘Anybody at home?’

  ‘Just a mongrel.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry.’

  ‘No matter.’ And Hennessey told Shetland about his glowing memory of Jennifer, and of the significant other in his life. ‘But we have decided not to merge households, not at our age. Do you have a family?’

  ‘One wife of many years, two children making their own way. You travelling back to York by train?’

  ‘Yes, via Harrogate. Slower than the Crossgates route but infinitely preferable, a lovely scenic line.’

  ‘I know it. That view of the river at Knaresborough. So how about a beer before you travel? There’s a quiet bar in the Queen’s Hotel, about the only place in Leeds city centre where you can have a beer and a conversation without having to raise your voice.’

  ‘Love to.’ Hennessey turned and made eye contact with Shetland. ‘Love to.’

  EIGHT

  In which George Hennessey meets a chartered accountant for lunch and learns of an unsolved crime

  MONDAY, 11th APRIL

  It was the one compensation Hennessey had found that always obtained to very old murders: the pace of the investigation was pleasingly leisurely. He had passed a quiet weekend, on duty on Saturday, when little of consequence for the CID took place. He had received a fax from Tom Tony’ Shetland relaying information from Dr Dunn of St James’s to the effect that a cross-section of the tooth taken from the skeleton found in the rear garden of 278 Brudenell Road had enabled Dr Dunn to determine age at death to be twenty-two years, plus or minus twelve months. Underneath the typed officialese, a neat hand, evidently that of Tom Shetland, had written, ‘You owe me a pint.’ Hennessey smiled, replied with a handwritten thanks and added ‘next time you’re in the famous and Fayre’. Sunday he had spent quietly at home, continuing with the account of the Peninsular War, taking Oscar for an extra long weekend walk as was their custom, and lamenting that he could not have had some time with Louise, but she and Samson and her two daughters were attending horse trials at Bramhope.

  And so, after a succulent leg-of-lamb roast for his evening meal, he strolled into Easingwold for a pint of stout at the Dove Inn and strolled home again, enjoying the walk more than the beer (though the beer was by no means an ordeal for him).

  The following morning, each holding a mug of steaming coffee, he and Yellich sat in his office. Hennessey told Yellich of the findings of the post-mortem that had been conducted the previous Friday at St James’s Hospital. Then he said, ‘So what have we got?’

  ‘Got?’ Yellich shook his head. ‘An awful lot of smoke, plenty of that, but actual evidence that links anybody to anything, precious little. What we have is very old. No warm corpses and identifiable figures seen running away, not on this one. The most val
uable twenty-four hours after any murder is long gone.’

  ‘Had the same thought myself over the weekend, Yellich.’ Hennessey stirred his coffee with a ballpoint pen. Hennessey didn’t take sugar and the action seemed to Yellich to be the gesture of a man lost, but wanting to do something. He understood, and felt for his senior officer.

  ‘There’s a way in, boss,’ he offered encouragingly. ‘There has to be.’

  Hennessey looked at him. ‘That’s three bodies so far. Well, one whole body, bits of two others, and all connected to a man who calls himself Quinlan but who fits the description of one Clement Drover, once known to his adoptive mother as “the Cuckoo”. He got comfortable in their nest and sucked it dry.’

  ‘Time for a quiz session with him, boss? Pull him in for questioning? Make him sweat a bit?’

  ‘Oh, he’s sweating all right. Did you see the regional news over the weekend?’

  ‘The report of the skeleton we found at the rear of the house in Leeds? Yes, I did, boss.’

  ‘And so will he have. He’ll have worked out that we followed the trail from the skull of Amanda Dunney to the skeleton in the back garden—or maybe he won’t. Two separate police forces: he may assume that the two discoveries are coincidental, and he’ll also know there is little, evidentially speaking, to link them with him. Besides which he can’t go to ground.’

  ‘Can’t he?’

  ‘No. Not if he is passing himself off as Andrew Quinlan Esquire, chartered accountant. Hardly a member of the criminal fraternity, with bolt-holes and hard cash and false passports stashed away. No, I think he’ll try to keep calm and cool and continue to act quite normally. He’s clever enough to know that if he does do a runner he’s only flagging up his guilt, because only the guilty run.’