The Chemistry of Death dh-1

by Simon Beckett

  'Impossible to say without knowing more.' I looked at the decaying vegetation and shrugged. 'Best guess, even allowing for a rapid rate of decomposition, I'd say perhaps nine, ten days. Much longer than that in this heat and the body would have been fully skeletonized by now.'

  As I was talking I'd been scanning the dead grass, trying to see what I hoped would be there. 'Which way was the body orientated?' I asked the crime scene officer.

  'Which way what?'

  'Which end was the head?'

  He pointed, sullenly. I visualized the photographs I'd seen, how the arms had been outstretched above the head, and moved to examine the ground around that area. I couldn't find what I wanted on the area of dead grass, so I began to extend my search beyond, carefully parting the grass stalks to see what lay at their base.

  I was beginning to think nothing was there, that some scavenging animal had discovered it, when I saw what I'd been looking for.

  'Can I have an evidence bag?'

  I waited till one was produced, then reached into the grass and gently lifted out a wizened brown scrap. I put it into the bag and sealed it.

  'What's that?' Mackenzie asked, craning his head to look.

  'When a body's been dead for a week or so you start getting skin slippage. That's why it looks so wrinkled on a corpse, like it doesn't fit properly. Particularly the hands. Eventually the skin will slough completely off, like a glove. It's often overlooked because people don't know what it is and mistake it for leaves.'

  I held up the see-through plastic bag containing the parchment-like scrap of tissue.

  'You said you wanted fingerprints.'

  Mackenzie drew his head sharply back. 'You're joking!'

  'No. I don't know if this is from the right or left hand, but the other should be around here as well, unless an animal's had it. I'll leave you to find it.'

  The crime scene officer snorted. 'And how are we supposed to get prints off that?' he demanded. 'Look at it! It's like a bloody crisp!'

  'Oh, it's easy enough,' I told him, beginning to enjoy it. 'Like it says on the packet, just add water.' He looked blank. 'Soak it overnight. It'll rehydrate and you can slip it onto your hand like a glove. Should give you a decent enough set of prints to get a match from.'

  I held the bag out to him. 'I'd get someone with small hands, if I were you. And put rubber gloves on first.'

  I left him staring at the bag and ducked under the tape. Reaction was beginning to set in. I stripped off the overalls and protective shoes, glad to be rid of them.

  Mackenzie came over as I was wadding them up. He was shaking his head. 'Well, you live and learn. Where the hell did you pick that up from?'

  'Over in the States. I spent a couple of years at the anthropology research facility in Tennessee. The Body Farm, as it's called unofficially. It's the only place in the world that uses human cadavers to research decomposition. How long it takes under different conditions, what factors can affect it. The FBI use it to train in body recovery.' I nodded over at the crime scene officer, who was bad-temperedly snapping instructions to the rest of the team. 'We could use something like it over here.'

  'Fat chance.' Mackenzie struggled out of his own overalls. 'I hate these bloody things,' he muttered, brushing himself down. 'So you reckon the body's been dead for about ten days?'

  I peeled off my gloves. The smell of latex and damp skin brought back more memories than I cared for. 'Nine or ten. But that doesn't mean it's been here all that time. It could have been moved from somewhere else. But I'm sure your forensic boys will be able to tell you that.'

  'You could help them.'

  'Sorry. I said I'd help you identify the body. This time tomorrow you should have a better idea who it is.' Or isn't, I thought, but kept that to myself.

  Mackenzie obviously saw through me. 'We've started serious inquiries now to try and find Sally Palmer,' he said. 'No-one we've spoken to so far has seen her since the pub barbecue. She'd got a grocery order she was supposed to be picking up the next day that she never appeared for. And she usually called into the newsagent's every morning for her papers. Avid Guardian reader, apparently. But she stopped collecting that as well.'

  A dark, ugly feeling was beginning to grow in me. 'Nobody reported this till now?'

  'Apparently not. Seems like nobody missed her. Everyone thought she must have gone off somewhere, or be busy writing. The newsagent told me it wasn't like she was a local. So much for living in a close-knit community, eh?'

  I couldn't say anything. I'd not noticed her absence either. 'It doesn't mean it's her. The barbecue was almost two weeks ago. Whoever you found here hasn't been dead for that long. And what about Sally's mobile phone?'

  'What about it?'

  'It was still working when I called it. If she'd been missing for all that time, the battery would be dead.'

  'Not necessarily. It's a new model, with a standby time of four hundred hours. That's about sixteen days. Probably exaggerated, but just sitting in her bag without being used, it could have lasted.'

  'This could still be somebody else,' I persisted, not believing it myself.

  'Perhaps.' His tone implied there was something he wasn't going to share with me. 'But whoever it is we need to find who killed her.'

  There was no arguing with that. 'Do you think it's somebody local? From the village?'

  'I don't think anything yet. Victim could be a hitch-hiker; killer could have just dumped her here as he was passing through. Too soon to say one way or the other.' He drew in a breath. 'Look-'

  'The answer's still no.'

  'You don't know what I'm going to ask yet.'

  'Yes, I do. Just one more favour to help you out. Then it'll be another, and another.' I shook my head. 'I don't do this any more. There are other people in the country who do.'

  'Not many. And you were the best.'

  'Not any more. I've done what I can.'

  His expression was cold. 'Have you?'

  Turning, he walked away, leaving me to make my own way back to the Land Rover. I drove away, but only until I was out of sight. My hands were shaking uncontrollably as I pulled into the side of the road. All at once I felt I couldn't breathe. I rested my head on the wheel, trying not to gulp air, knowing if I hyperventilated that would only make it worse.

  Finally, the panic attack subsided. My shirt was sticking to me with sweat, but I didn't move until there was a blare of horn from behind me. A tractor was chugging up towards where I was blocking the road. As I looked the driver gestured angrily for me to get out of the way. I held up my hand in apology and set off again.

  By the time I reached the village I was beginning to feel calmer. I wasn't hungry but I knew I should eat something. I stopped outside the store that was the closest thing the village had to a supermarket. I was planning to buy a sandwich and take it back home, snatch an hour or two trying to put my thoughts in order before evening surgery started. As I passed the chemist's a young woman came out and almost bumped into me. I recognized her as one of Henry's patients, one of the loyal number who still preferred to wait until they could see him. I'd treated her once, when Henry hadn't been working, but still had to search for her name.

  Lyn, I thought. Lyn Metcalf.

  'Oh, sorry,' she said, clutching a parcel to her.

  'That's all right. How are you, anyway?'

  She gave me a huge grin. 'I'm great, thanks.'

  As she went off up the street I can remember thinking it was good to see someone so obviously happy. And then I didn't give her another thought.

  7

  It was later than usual when Lyn reached the embankment that ran through the reedbeds, but the morning was even mistier than the day before. A white smudge overlaid everything, swirling into aimless shapes that remained just out of sight. It would burn off later, and by lunchtime it would have become one of the hottest days of the year. But right now all was cool and damp, and the idea of sun and heat seemed far away.

  She felt stiff and out of sort
s. She and Marcus had stayed up late the night before to watch a film, and her body was still protesting about it. She'd found it uncharacteristically hard to force herself out of bed that morning, grumbling to Marcus who merely grunted unsympathetically as he locked himself in the shower. Now she was out her muscles felt stiff and grudging. Run it off. You'll feel better for it afterwards. She grimaced. Yeah, right.

  To take her mind off how hard the run was proving, she thought about the parcel she'd hidden in the chest of drawers under her bras and pants, where it was a safe bet Marcus wouldn't find it. The only interest he took in her underwear was when she was wearing it.

  She hadn't intended to buy the pregnancy testing kit when she went into the chemist's. But when she'd seen them on the shelves, impulse had made her put one into her basket along with the extra box of tampons she hoped she wouldn't be needing. Even then she might have had second thoughts. It was hard enough keeping anything secret in this place, and buying something like that could well mean the entire village would be giving her knowing looks before the day was out.

  But the shop was empty, and there had only been a bored young girl on the checkout. She was new, indifferent to anyone over the age of eighteen, and unlikely to even notice what Lyn was buying, let alone care enough to gossip. Face burning, Lyn had stepped forward and busied herself rummaging in her bag for the money as the teenager listlessly rang the testing kit through on the till.

  She'd been grinning like a kid when she hurried out, only to bump straight into one of the doctors. The younger one, not Dr Henry. Dr Hunter. Quiet, but not bad-looking. Caused quite a stir among the younger women when he arrived, though he didn't seem to notice it. God, she'd felt so embarrassed; it had been all she could do not to laugh. He must have thought she was mad, beaming at him like an idiot. Or thought she fancied him. The thought of it made her smile again now.

  The run was doing its work. She was finally starting to loosen up, kinks and aches easing as the blood began to pump. The woods were just ahead now, and as she looked at them some dark association stirred in her subconscious. At first, still distracted by the memory of what had happened at the chemist, she couldn't place it. Then it came to her. She'd forgotten about the dead hare she'd found on the path the day before until now. And the sense of being watched she'd felt when she'd entered the woods.

  Suddenly the prospect of going into them again – especially in this mist – was strangely unappealing. Stupid, she thought, doing her best to dismiss it. Still, she slowed a little as she approached them. When she realized what she was doing she clicked her tongue in irritation and picked up her speed. Only when she had almost reached the treeline did she think about the woman's body that had been found. But that hadn't been near here, she told herself. Besides, the killer would have to be some sort of masochist to be out this early, she thought wryly. And then the first of the trees closed around her.

  It was a relief when the foreboding she'd felt the day before failed to materialize. The woods were just woods again. The path was empty, the dead hare no doubt part of the food chain by now. Just nature, that was all. She glanced at the stopwatch on her wrist, saw she'd lost a minute or two on her usual time, and picked up her pace as she approached the clearing. The standing stone was in sight now, a dark shape ahead of her in the mist. She was almost on top of it before it registered that something about it was wrong. Then light and shadow resolved themselves, and all thoughts of running went out of her mind.

  A dead bird had been tied to the stone. It was a mallard, bound with wire around its neck and feet. Recovering, Lyn quickly looked around. But there was nothing to see. Only trees, and the dead mallard. She wiped sweat from her eyes and looked at it again. Blood darkened its feathers where the thin strand bit into it. Uncertain whether or not to untie it, she leaned forward to examine the wire more closely.

  The bird opened its eyes.

  Lyn cried out and stumbled backwards as it began to thrash about, head jerking against the wire pinning its neck. It was damaging itself even more, but she couldn't bring herself to go near the wildly beating wings. Her mind was beginning to function again, making the connection between this and the dead hare, laid on the path as though for her to find. And then that was swept away by a more urgent realization.

  If the bird was still alive it couldn't have been here long. Someone had done this recently.

  Someone who knew she'd find it.

  Part of her insisted that was just fantasy, but she was already sprinting back down the path. Branches whipped her as she pounded past, no thought of pacing herself now, just get out get out get out yelling again and again in her head. She didn't care if she was being stupid or not, wanted only to escape from the woods to the open landscape beyond. Only one more twist in the path and she'd be able to see it. Her breath rasped as she ran, eyes flitting to the trees at either side, expecting someone to appear out of them at any second. But no-one did. She gave a half-moan, half-sob as she neared the final bend. Not far, she thought, and as she felt the first stirrings of relief something snatched her foot out from under her.

  There was no time to react. She pitched forward onto the ground, the impact forcing the air from her lungs. She couldn't breathe, couldn't move. Stunned, she managed one breath, then another, sucking the damp scent of loam into her throat. Still dazed, she looked back at what had tripped her. At first what she saw made no sense. One leg was stretched out awkwardly, the foot twisted at an odd angle. There was a thin gleam of fishing line snagged around it. No, she realized, not fishing line.

  Wire.

  Understanding came too late. As she tried to scramble to her feet a shadow fell across her. Something pressed into her face, smothering her. She tried to rear back from the cloying, chemical stink, fighting with all the strength in her legs and arms. It wasn't enough. And now even that was ebbing. Her struggles grew weak as the morning swam away from her, light bleeding to black. No! She tried to resist, but she was already sinking further into darkness, like a pebble dropped into a well.

  Was there a last sense of disbelief before consciousness winked out? Possibly, though it wouldn't have lasted long.

  Not long at all.

  For the rest of the village, the day broke as any other. Perhaps a little more breathless, excited by the continued presence of the police and speculation about the identity of the dead woman. It was a soap opera come to life, Manham's very own melodrama. Someone had died, yes, but for most people it was still a tragedy at arm's length, and therefore not really a tragedy at all. The unspoken assumption was that it was some stranger. If it had been one of the village's own, wouldn't it have been known? Wouldn't the victim have been missed, the perpetrator recognized? No, far more likely that it was an outsider, some human flotsam from a town or city who had climbed into the wrong car, only to wash up here. And so it was regarded almost as an entertainment, a rare treat that could be savoured without shock or grief.

  Not even the fact that the police were asking about Sally Palmer was enough to change that. Everyone knew she was a writer, often travelled to London. Her face was too fresh in people's minds to associate with what had been found on the marsh. So Manham was unable to take any of it seriously, slow to accept the fact that, far from being an onlooker, its role was far more central.

  That would change before the day was out.

  It changed for me at eleven o'clock that morning, with the phone call from Mackenzie. I'd slept badly, gone into the surgery early to try and shake the vestiges of another night's ghosts from my mind. When the phone on my desk rang and Janice told me who was on the line I felt a renewed tension in my gut.

  'Put him through.'

  The hiatus of connection seemed endless, yet not long enough.

  'We've got a fingerprint match,' Mackenzie said as soon as he came on. 'It's Sally Palmer.'

  'Are you sure?' Stupid question, I thought.

  'No doubt about it. The prints match samples from her house. And we've got hers on record as well. She was arre
sted during a protest when she was a student.'

  She hadn't struck me as the militant type, but then I hadn't really got to know her. And never would now.

  Mackenzie hadn't finished. 'Now we've got a firm ID we can get things moving. But I thought you might be interested to know we still haven't found anyone who can remember seeing her after the pub barbecue.'

  He waited, as if I should find some significance in that. It took me a moment to drag my thoughts back. 'You mean the maths don't add up,' I said.

  'Not if she's only been dead for nine or ten days. It's looking likely now that she went missing almost a fortnight ago. That leaves several days unaccounted for.'

  'That was only an estimate,' I told him. 'I could be wrong. What does the pathologist say?'

  'He's still looking into it,' he said, dryly. 'But so far he isn't disagreeing.'

  I wasn't surprised. I'd once come across a murder victim who'd been stored in a freezer for several weeks before the killer finally dumped the body, but usually the physical processes of decay worked to an ordered timetable. It might vary depending on the environment, be slowed down or speeded up by temperature and humidity. But once they were taken into account then the process was readable. And what I'd seen at the marsh the day before – I still hadn't made the emotional jump to connecting it with the woman I'd known – had been as irrefutable as the hands on a stopwatch. It was just a matter of understanding it.

  That was something few pathologists were comfortable with. There was a degree of overlap between forensic anthropology and pathology, but once serious decomposition started most pathologists tended to throw up their hands. Their area of expertise was cause of death, and that became increasingly difficult to determine once the body's biology started to break down. Which was where my work started.

  Not any more, I reminded myself.

  'You still there, Dr Hunter?' Mackenzie asked.

  'Yes.'

  'Good, because this is going to leave us with a predicament. One way or another we need to account for those extra days.'