by Helen Phifer
As they walked out to the car park, Mattie took out his car keys.
‘It’s all right, I’ll drive,’ Lucy said. ‘I can squeeze my car in almost any corner of the hospital car park, whereas you’ll spend ages trying to park that beast.’
Mattie sighed. She knew he hated being seen in what he described as her ‘mint green tin can’.
‘You know,’ he said now, ‘it wouldn’t be so bad if it was plain white. It’s like driving around in a mint choc chip ice cream cone. Do you have no self-respect, Lucy? You’re a DI now. You should be driving around in something which reflects your status – a BMW or a Mercedes.’
‘Don’t you disrespect my car! It’s cute, my favourite colour and cheap to run. Not like yours. Do you have any idea of the damage you’re doing to the environment driving that around?’
He shrugged. ‘Compared to what, the nuclear power plant up the road that emits green clouds of toxic gas when we’re all in bed? Nah, that’s rubbish. You’re just jealous that you don’t have a car like mine.’
‘Believe me when I say I’m not jealous. I’m glad I don’t have to drive around in that.’ Lucy strode towards her car and Mattie had to pick up his pace to keep up with her.
* * *
Catherine Maxwell was waiting for them to arrive at the mortuary. She was already dressed in the signature pink scrubs that she insisted on wearing for every post-mortem. It was always a bit of a shock for student officers when they attended their very first PM to be greeted by the ultra-glamorous Dr Maxwell. Her long brown hair was always immaculately pinned up in a chignon, and there was normally a diamante clip securing it to her head. She had told Lucy that the hospital had refused to buy her the pink scrubs so she’d ordered them herself. When Lucy had asked her why she didn’t just use the standard blue ones, Catherine had laughed.
‘Just because I deal with the dead, it doesn’t mean that I shouldn’t make an effort for them. I refuse to spend my life wearing those dowdy blue scrubs – and besides, I’ve never really suited blue.’
Lucy hadn’t been able to argue with her. She was the complete opposite to Catherine, much preferring to dress down rather than up. If she could, she’d wear her jeans and Converse all day every day to work. Then again, if she looked as good as Catherine she’d probably make a point of wearing pink scrubs as well.
Mattie smiled at Catherine. Lucy knew that he had a soft spot for the doctor, even though she was tough on him. She always made a point of asking him lots of questions.
When everyone was scrubbed up, and Jack and Amanda had flipped a coin to decide who was going to be the wet CSI and who the dry, Catherine began. Jack, who had won the prime position of dry CSI, was ready with his pen to mark up the exhibits as they were passed to him. Amanda, having lost, would have to do the photography and work closely with Catherine.
The mortuary technician wheeled the trolley over with their John Smith on it, and Catherine read out the information from the tag attached to the zipper on the outside of the bag. It was cut off, and the body bag unzipped to reveal the elderly male inside.
Catherine began by examining his fully dressed body, checking to see if there were any other tears or defects in his clothing. These would be used to correlate with any injuries they might find once his clothes had been removed.
‘His clothes are intact,’ Catherine said. ‘There are no signs of any obvious injuries on his body, apart from the massive trauma to his eye socket.’
She continued doing what she was so very good at, whilst Lucy watched and Mattie took notes. Lucy knew Mattie preferred not to watch every slice and dice, so she’d let him take the notes to keep him busy. Every item of the victim’s clothing was removed, examined and sealed into evidence bags for identification. This was fairly straightforward, and before long the body was undressed, lying naked under the glare of the bright lights, ready for the external examination. Catherine began to describe his physical appearance to Mattie, who was trying his best to write fast and keep up. Catherine used a Dictaphone, but Lucy preferred that they had their own set of notes as well.
‘We have a male around seventy to eighty years of age, approximately five foot nine inches tall. He’s slightly overweight, no visible scars or tattoos. Teeth are all false.’ She picked up his arms to examine his wrists. ‘There is slight bruising to the wrists where he was restrained by the leather straps on the table.’
She pointed to the wrists, which Amanda photographed, taking close-ups.
‘The trauma to the eye is the cause of death.’ The sound of the camera clicking filled the room. Catherine took hold of the metal spike and pulled it from the wound. The squelching sound made Lucy grimace. Catherine held the instrument next to the injured eye socket so that Amanda could photograph it.
‘And this is an orbitoclast, which is a modified ice pick to me and you. It’s the cause of death. Can you see the depth of the injury? Whoever did this definitely meant business. This would have been inserted into the victim’s eye socket using a hammer. Ordinarily, for a lobotomy, the surgeon would only insert it far enough to be able to separate the frontal lobes from the thalamus – which is the part of the brain that receives and relays our sensory input. However, the killer has used the hammer – or something similar – to drive the orbitoclast as far into the brain as possible, causing death.’
Lucy shuddered. What a terrible way to die.
Finally, Catherine was ready to make the thoracoabdominal incision, more commonly known as the Y incision. She made a point of puncturing the victim’s abdominal wall so that the morbidity gas was released; this made Amanda, Mattie and Lucy all groan in unison. Lucy knew that if Catherine hadn’t done that, the gas which had built up would have made the body sit up on the table – which was something she had only ever seen once when she was in her training, and never wanted to see ever again.
When Catherine had finished weighing and measuring all the internal organs, they were placed in a plastic bag, ready to be sewn back into the victim’s body cavity. The whole process was so awful, yet necessary. Lucy had noticed that Mattie hadn’t looked up from his notepad for the last twenty minutes, and she couldn’t blame him. Lucy had felt her own stomach clench a few times and she had to concentrate on taking deep breaths to keep herself calm. When Catherine finally stepped away from the body, the relief in the room was almost tangible.
‘Well, in my opinion, “John Smith” died as a result of the catastrophic injury to his brain through his eye socket. The manner of death was definitely homicide. Unless the man was Harry Houdini, there was no way he would have been able to use the orbitoclast to pierce his own eyeball and brain.’
Lucy sighed. They had already established all of this at the actual crime scene. The post-mortem had been necessary, though; official conclusions had to have been reached for when they caught the killer and it went to court.
‘Thank you so much, Catherine,’ she said, trying not to sound disappointed.
‘You’re welcome. I’d appreciate it if you didn’t bring me any more of these, Lucy. For the first time in forever I actually felt a little bit queasy doing this one – and I thought I was hardened to everything.’
‘I’ll try my best. Not sure I can promise you, though.’
15
Lucy, who had scrubbed her hands clean more times than she could count, was still outside the changing rooms before Mattie. She leant against the cold painted wall and took some deep breaths. The door to the men’s changing room slammed open and she watched as Mattie walked out, his face even paler than hers.
‘This is some fucked up shit, boss. I mean, it’s serious to do what that killer did.’
‘It’s serious to do what every killer does.’
‘You know what I mean. This is unlike anything I’ve ever seen. You know yourself – in this town, when a murder happens, well… It’s not like this one, is it?’
Lucy shook her head. He had a point.
‘I mean, stranger-killings are very rare, aren’t they?’ M
attie continued. ‘It’s normally some domestic gone wrong, or something to do with women, drugs or sex. But you can usually guarantee the victim and the killer know each other. I think that in this case, the killer has taken revenge on the victim. So therefore they must have known them.’
‘I think you’re right, Mattie. It does look like a revenge killing. But revenge for what? Until we can ID the victim, we have nowhere to start looking for a connection. We have no choice: we need to issue a press release with a picture of his face and hope that someone recognises him, otherwise this isn’t going anywhere.’
They had been walking towards the bank of lifts at the very end of the hospital corridor and talking in whispers – there were too many normal members of the public around. Lucy spoke in a normal voice now: ‘I’m starving. Let’s go and get something to eat from the canteen and have a think. I can’t work well on an empty stomach.’
‘I don’t know if I’m hungry, boss.’
‘Well I am; you can decide whether or not you are whilst I’m eating.’
They reached the lift and Lucy pressed the call button. The doors opened and they stepped to one side to allow a porter to push out a bed with an elderly woman on it. They took the lift to the floor below, where the huge canteen was situated. As the lift doors opened, the smell of fried bacon hit their nostrils and Mattie decided that he was hungry after all.
They joined the queue of visitors and doctors and nurses on breaks, all of whom were waiting for the full English breakfast that the hospital canteen was famous for. Lucy had everything except for black pudding; Mattie asked for the same. They sat down to eat at a table in the far corner of the restaurant, as far away from anyone else as they could manage. Neither of them spoke as they ate their breakfasts, both of them trying not to think about the post-mortem. When they’d finally finished the food, and were just sipping their coffees, Lucy took out a notebook from her pocket.
‘The victim had something to do with the asylum; I’d swear on it. And I think our killer was linked to the asylum, too. We’re talking years ago – whatever happened between them must have happened a long time ago because the hospital has been shut since the seventies.’
‘So we’re looking at a killer who has harboured a grudge for – what? Over forty years?’ Mattie frowned. ‘I don’t know about that, Lucy. Why now? It seems a bit too far-fetched. Maybe we’re completely wrong and it’s just some sick random killing.’
Lucy’s phone began to ring and she picked it up. ‘DI Harwin.’ She listened to the angry voice on the other end. ‘Have you tried phoning my husband George? I mean, Ellie’s dad.’ She looked at Mattie, her face a mask of anger. ‘Right. Well, I’m at work and it’s not a very good time for me, to be honest.’ A few moments passed as she listened. ‘I’ll be there as soon as I can.’
She ended the call. ‘Bloody kids.’
‘Ellie?’
‘Yes, Ellie. She’s only gone and nicked some expensive make-up from Debenhams and been caught by the security staff. She has more make-up than me; she doesn’t need any more and she certainly doesn’t need to steal the stuff.’
‘Where is she now?’
‘Back at Burlington House. There was a meeting about Ellie today, which George promised me he’d attend. I can’t believe she’d be so stupid. Did you know that she moved in with her dad the day after I was suspended?’
Mattie shook his head.
‘She told George that I was angry and taking everything out on her.’
‘Ouch, that’s mean. Were you?’
‘No, I bloody wasn’t. She never bothered to tell him that me being angry wasn’t because of what happened at work. She conveniently forgot to mention that it was because she’d been found in a back street by a PCSO lying in a puddle of her own vomit, off her head on cheap vodka.’
‘Look, you go and sort Ellie out, and I’ll go back to the station and fill Tom in on the post-mortem,’ Mattie said. ‘There’s not much we can do until we get an ID on the victim. If anything comes up I’ll let you know.’
‘Thank you, Mattie; I really appreciate it. I won’t be long, because if George doesn’t turn up I’ll drive her to his offices and march her in there.’
Lucy stood up and left Mattie to clear away the plates and mugs.
16
By the time Lucy had found a parking space in the busy town centre, and had then walked the short distance to the youth offending support workers’ offices, she was even angrier than before. It wasn’t fair. She’d done her very best for Ellie. Yes, they argued a lot, but didn’t all teenagers hate their parents? Lucy felt as though Ellie held everything against her – the long hours she worked not helping. At least she tried her best to be a good mother, which was more than some women did.
She buzzed to be let into the building and was met at the door by a girl who didn’t look much older than Ellie. Lucy felt some of the anger begin to subside when the girl smiled at her. Her daughter was a mess; her whole life was one big, bloody mess, if she was honest. She’d known the teenage years would be tough, but no one had warned her they would be this tough.
The girl led her up a winding staircase to the next floor, where she could hear a commotion. There was a lot of shouting, and she recognised the petulant voice as belonging to her daughter. Inhaling, she stepped into the room to be greeted by Ellie, who was standing behind a chair, both hands gripping the back of it as if she was about to launch it at the woman opposite her.
‘Ellie, what are you doing?’
Ellie rolled her eyes at her mum, but let go of the chair.
‘What is wrong with you, Ellie?’
‘Mrs Younger.’
Lucy turned to the woman, cutting her off. ‘It’s Ms Harwin, actually.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry. Ms Harwin. I’m afraid Ellie is out of control. I believe that she’s been drinking in the Kings this morning when she should have been in maths.’
Lucy looked at the large clock on the wall behind her daughter. It was only twenty past eleven. She felt her heart sink. The Kings was the local dive pub where all the hardened alcoholics spent their allowances. What the hell was she supposed to do now, and where was George? He was the calmer, cooler, wiser parent.
Ellie glared at the woman. ‘You fucking grass.’
Lucy felt her cheeks flush. ‘Ellie, don’t you dare speak to anyone like that. I won’t have it. What the hell is wrong with you?’
She felt a warm hand touch her arm and she turned to see George. Relief flooded through her. They might have their differences, but George was a good man and a brilliant dad. Ellie burst into tears at the look of disappointment on his face, and Lucy felt a small spark of smugness ignite inside her chest. Good; she wanted Ellie to understand what a disgrace she was.
George took hold of Ellie’s arm and pushed her down onto the nearest chair. The woman who was watching nodded her head in approval, which instantly made Lucy feel angry towards her. What did she know about their life and how hard it had been for Lucy, managing on her own?
‘Thank you, Mr Younger; I think things were getting a little out of hand. I’m Jane Toppan, Ellie’s support worker while she’s here at youth offending.’ She reached out and shook George’s hand, then held out her hand towards Lucy, who took it reluctantly.
‘Look,’ Jane continued, ‘I don’t know what’s caused Ellie to act like this today. I can say that it’s completely out of character for her. She is normally very well-behaved and respectful towards her peers and the staff. Perhaps, Ellie, you could tell us what happened, and then we can try to figure out what to do?’
Lucy looked across at her daughter, who was now sitting with her head bowed, looking as if she was the one who had been hard done by. Ellie shrugged her shoulders as if she couldn’t care less. Lucy opened her mouth, but George beat her to it.
‘Ellie had some news yesterday that she didn’t take too kindly to, and I think this is her way of letting us know exactly how she felt about it. Why, though, Ellie? Your behaving like a spoilt
six-year-old child isn’t going to make any difference to how things are at all.’
Lucy’s mind was frantically trying to work out exactly what it was that George had told their daughter to get this reaction from her. She didn’t have to wonder for very long.
‘Don’t lie. When that blonde-haired bint has her baby, you won’t want anything to do with me. You’ll just toss me to one side like she did.’ Ellie pointed at Lucy, who for once was confused. Had Ellie just said that Rosie was pregnant?
It hit her like a lead ball. They must be serious about each other, then. Lucy had been hoping that Rosie, with her youthful looks and childless lifestyle, was going to be a passing phase in George’s life. In fact, she’d been praying that she would, because Lucy wanted him to come back to her so they could pick up where they left off.
‘See? Even she’s shocked.’ Ellie was pointing at Lucy, who realised that she should probably close her mouth and attempt to smile.
‘No, I’m not. Well, maybe a little bit. That’s great news all round; you’re going to have a baby brother or sister. Why would that make you angry?’
But Lucy already knew why. Ellie had been George’s golden girl. Even though she’d turned into the nightmare teenager from hell, he still doted on her. Now she was going to have to share him.
George took hold of Ellie’s hand. ‘It doesn’t change how I feel about you, Ellie. You’ll always be my little girl.’
Ellie’s hand lingered in his for a few seconds before she snatched it away. Jane smiled. ‘Now that everyone has calmed down a little, we need to discuss the drinking and the stealing.’