I had little patience for the man, having been less than amused by his antics on several previous occasions, and I felt my hackles rise as he thundered up the stairs and stormed into the room. He glowered at PC Hubble, then me, and then the deceased in a fashion that suggested each of us owed him a sincere apology.
“Well, Constable?” snarled DI Gadget. “What’s the story?”
PC Hubble produced his notebook and flipped through it. “Dr Fedya Dolfin, age fifty one; teaches telecommunications and electronics at the London Metrosexual University; lives with his wife, Tanya Dolfin; last seen alive on Friday evening. His wife was away over the weekend, staying with their son in Manchester. She arrived back this morning, found him dead in bed and made the call.”
“Did she ID the body?” huffed DI Gadget.
“Yes, Sir.”
“Any signs of forced entry?”
“No, Sir.”
“Where is she now?”
“Downstairs, Sir.”
“Have you collected a statement yet?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Give it here, then.” Detective Inspector Gadget waved his arm around impatiently before snatching the proffered paper out of PC Hubble’s hand. “I’ll get to her next.” He looked me up and down contemptuously. “Well, Dr Shortarse. What killed him, then?”
“Too soon to say, Inspector Gadget.”
His face darkened, and his upper lip curled.
“Not Gad-JIT,” he growled, “Gad-JAY! It’s French, comprendez?”
“Ah oui, bien sûr,” I replied with a shallow bow.
“Do you have anything useful to offer?” snapped DI Gadget (sorry; Gad-jay).
“He’s been dead for two to three days. There are no signs of violence and no medications lying about. That’s all I have until I perform the post-mortem.”
DI Gad-jay took a step towards me and leaned over to look me in the eye. “Then I suggest you **** off back to your mortuary and get busy.”
Having no desire to linger, I hastily collected my equipment and headed from the room.
“Au revoir, Inspector Gadget.”
“It’s Gad-jay, you little ****,” he roared at my back as I scurried down the stairs.
“N’ai pas peur,” I shouted over my shoulder, “je vais prier pour le retour rapide de votre cerveau. (Have no fear, I shall pray for the speedy return of your brain).”
*
Beneath the fluorescent strip lights of the mortuary, every blemish, blotch, blister and bruise is revealed, and it is no place for the vain or diffident, be they living or dead.
Doctor Dolfin arrived just after lunch and Danny, the mortuary attendant, and I descended like pale grotesques upon his corpse, rolling him this way and that, looking for external injuries or abnormalities. We opened the doctor using the traditional Y-shaped incision and checked that all his components had been assembled in the standard format. Once satisfied, I retired to make coffee while Danny prepared the body for detailed examination.
I returned a few minutes later to find the late Dr Dolfin sporting the open-top look which is quite de rigueur amongst the London cadaverous. I noticed immediately that his brain had lost some of its usual folded texture and was swollen inside the skull, pressed firmly against the sides like a size sixteen lady in a size fourteen frock.
I sipped my coffee while Danny emptied Dr Dolfin’s stomach of its contents, spooned a little into a plastic specimen pot and then attached a hollow needle to a syringe, ready to collect a vitreous sample. With the thumb and forefinger of his left hand, he opened the doctor’s left eye and advanced the needle tip. There was a soft scraping noise, and Danny cursed.
“Glass eye?” I enquired.
“Hmm,” assented Danny.
Fortunately, Dr Dolfin’s other eye was more cooperative, and by the time my cup was empty, Danny had tied off the great blood vessels to the doctor’s neck, removed the heart and lungs and laid them out on one of the metal workbenches. The abdominal and cranial contents had been similarly extracted for my perusal.
I weighed and examined the organs in turn, cutting each open to check for gross internal derangement. I sectioned the arteries of the heart, but found no blockage and no damage to the muscle. There were no blood clots in the lungs, nor ruptured aneurysms or internal bleeding.
Dr Dolfin’s brain was swollen, heavy and congested, and there were multiple small haemorrhages concentrated around the thalamus and hypothalamus with extension through the midbrain and into the pons. It was incredible! This was the exact pattern of strokes that had been described in Professor Gorshkov’s autopsy report.
Examination of the other organs was unremarkable, so I collected samples of blood, urine and cerebrospinal fluid and prepared cassettes of tissue from the heart, lungs, liver, kidneys and brain.
Danny was kind enough to reassemble the doctor while I dictated my report, but I was troubled. Two victims stricken in such a curious fashion. Was it more than mere coincidence?
For several minutes, I sat pondering until Danny reminded me that we had another two autopsies to perform and politely suggested that I, “stop gurning like a loon and get a shift on.”
At the close of business, I rang Detective Inspector Gadget to inform him that Dr Dolfin had succumbed to an unusual pattern of multiple strokes, but that the toxicology and histology results would not be available for several days. He accepted the news with his trademark blend of good grace and charm and terminated the conversation by advising me to, “**** off.”
*
It was just after six when I arrived back at number sixteen, Chuffnell Mews, and was showered, changed and ready to eat by half past. Urban-Smith and I sat at the kitchen table while Mrs Denford prepared supper.
“How was Utrecht?” I asked.
“Superb. My presentation on lignotelepathy went down an absolute storm and produced intense debate.”
“Lignotelepathy?”
“The ability to communicate with trees,” explained Urban-Smith. “Of course, the difficulty lies with verifying the phenomenon. As for Utrecht, it is a marvellous city. You should come with me when I return for next year’s conference.”
“Indeed I should.”
He regarded me curiously. “Something is troubling you, Rupert.”
I sighed. “I am concerned that in the matter of the late Professor Gorshkov, I may have overlooked some detail.” I outlined the day’s events and the findings of Dr Dolfin’s autopsy whilst Urban-Smith sat in rapt attention, nodding and murmuring at appropriate intervals until we were briefly, but welcomely, interrupted by Mrs Denford, who brought each of us a plate of meat pie with peas and potatoes.
“Well, Fairfax,” said I, poking at my supper with my knife, “what say you?”
Urban-Smith shovelled a large mouthful of pie into his receptacle and chewed thoughtfully. “Do you object if I probe you further?”
“Probe away.”
He pointed his knife at me. “The parallels between this death and that of Professor Gorshkov are remarkable, but do we have any justification to suppose a connection other than their shared Russian origins?”
“Dr Dolfin is Russian?”
“Oh yes, Rupert. The Dolfins have a proud and noble history in Russia, spanning several centuries, which may or may not have some bearing on the case. However, that is a conversation for another time.” He looked at me expectantly. “Were you made aware of any other interpersonal connections between the two academics?”
“To be honest, I was given very little information, and Inspector Gadget did not encourage me to linger at the scene.”
“Then we must resort to speculation in order to string the sparse facts together. Let us start with the victim himself. What do we know of him? We know that he is a 51-year-old, married man, he has at least one adult child, he works as an academic in the field of telecommunications, and both he and his wife own their own motor cars. He sleeps only in boxer shorts, appears not to exercise, takes no medication and sports a glass eye
. He lives within easy striking distance of the City, comes from noble Russian lineage and died from multiple strokes at some time between Friday night and Sunday morning. Is this the sum total of our knowledge?”
“I think so,” I replied.
“Think carefully, Rupert. Even the slightest of detail may yet prove crucial. What car does he drive? Is he a tidy man?”
“Hmm,” I hmm’d. “The house is well furnished. The carpets are plush and clean. The Dolfins are in the habit of removing their shoes at the door and their hats and coats in the downstairs hall. They own a blue, four-door BMW with ‘53 plates and a red Fiesta with last year’s plates. They do not keep any pets and they like to watch the television in bed.” I rolled my eyes upwards and tried to visualise what I had seen in greater detail, but I do not share Urban-Smith’s clarity of vision and recall, and had nothing further to offer.
“Excellent, Rupert. Did you notice any shoe prints upon the carpet?”
“No. It seems that the attending officers had the courtesy to wipe their feet.”
“Did you speak to the widow?”
“No.”
“Do we know anything of Dolfin’s current research?”
“No.”
“Blast!” Urban-Smith stabbed at his greenery with his fork. “We need more data.”
“What do you suggest?”
“Tomorrow,” said he, “I shall contact the London Metrosexual and see if I can obtain Dr Dolfin’s CV. On your part, I need you to pump his widow for further information.”
He rose from the table, returning promptly with pad and pen. He scribbled for a minute and then handed the pad to me for inspection. “These are the facts that we require please, Rupert.”
The list read as follows:
‘Did Dolfin know or mention Trofim Gorshkov?
Had there been any recent stress or upset, e.g. burglary?
How did the Dolfins meet?
How did he come by the glass eye?
Was there a telephone near the body?’
“Alright, Fairfax,” said I, “I shall ask PC Hubble for Mrs Dolfin’s number and advise him that I need more information to complete my report.”
“Be circumspect, Rupert. With Gadget in charge, we shall have to tread lightly.”
“Ha!” I snorted. “The man is just a big bully.”
“Indeed he is,” Urban-Smith concurred, “yet he has something that other bullies have not.”
I nodded sagely. “The full force of English law at his back.”
“More than that,” said he, indicating his crooked nose. “He has an exemplary right cross.”
◆◆◆
7. CURRICULUM INCOMPLETAE
Wednesday 1st November
Upon my arrival at work on Wednesday morning, I contacted Wandsworth Police Station to speak to PC Hubble. Unfortunately, he was not on duty and so my call was transferred to DI Gadget.
“Gad-jay. Who is this?”
“Dr Harker.”
“What do you want?”
“I would like Mrs Dolfin’s telephone number, please. I have to ask her some questions about her late husband.”
“What for?”
“In order to complete my report, I need to know his past medical history.”
“I thought you said he died from a stroke.”
“Those are my preliminary findings. If you want my final report, I require more information.”
Reluctantly, DI Gadget acceded to my request and parted with the number. I spent the rest of the morning examining histological specimens, and at lunchtime I retired to my office to contact Mrs Dolfin.
She answered the telephone sounding tired and distracted.
“Mrs Dolfin?”
“Speaking.”
“Good afternoon, Mrs Dolfin. My name is Dr Rupert Harker. I am the pathologist dealing with your husband’s case. Would you be able to answer some questions to assist me in preparing my report, please?”
“Have you examined him yet?”
“I have.”
“Can you tell me anything?”
“At this stage, it appears that your husband died as the result of multiple small strokes which caused the brain to swell.”
There were a few moments of silence.
“Was it quick?” she whispered.
“Yes. He would have gone very quickly. I’m sure he didn’t suffer.”
There was a sob and a sniff, but she soon composed herself. “What do you wish to know, doctor?”
I consulted my list of questions. “Did Dr Dolfin have any ongoing health problems?”
“No, none.”
“Any medications?”
“No. The occasional headache tablet. Nothing else.”
“Operations?”
“No.”
“Other than his eye, of course,” I added.
“His eye?” Mrs Dolfin sounded genuinely perplexed. “He never mentioned any eye surgery. It must have been before we met.”
How very odd, I thought, that Mrs Dolfin should have failed to notice her husband’s cyclopean disposition. However, I elected to push on.
“And what of his mental health? Was your husband under any stress?”
“Not at all.”
“Were there any problems at work? Any recent thefts for example?”
“None at all. He seemed quite content.”
“If you don’t mind me asking, how did you and your husband meet?”
“We met twelve years ago on a skiing holiday in the Alps. We had so much in common, we agreed to keep in touch when we returned to England. We were married less than six months later.”
“Twelve years? I thought that you had grown-up children.”
“From my first marriage, yes.”
“Ah, of course. Did Dr Dolfin have children?”
“No.”
“I see.” I referred briefly to my list of questions. “When you found your husband on Tuesday, was there anything out of place?”
“How do you mean?”
“Was the furniture disturbed or in disarray?”
“No. All was as normal.”
“Do you keep a telephone in the bedroom?”
“Yes. There is a handset by the bed.”
“Was it there when you returned?”
“I think so. I didn’t really notice.”
“You didn’t find it on the floor or in his hand?”
“No.” She hesitated. “Why should you wish to know about the telephone?”
“The more information that I have, the easier it will be to understand the circumstances of your husband’s death.”
“Oh, I see. Well, I’m afraid that I have to go now, doctor. There is so much to arrange; you have no idea.”
“Of course. Just one last question, please. Are you acquainted with either Trofim or Ulyana Gorshkov?”
The line went silent. I waited a few moments for a response.
“Mrs Dolfin?” I prompted.
“Oh, yes,” she said, clearly distracted. “Sorry, doctor, I was trying to remember. Gorshkov, you say? No, I’m afraid it doesn’t ring any bells.”
“Well, thank you for your time, Mrs Dolfin. I’m sorry to have disturbed you. Please accept my condolences for your loss.”
“Thank you, Doctor Harker. Good afternoon.”
I sat regarding the telephone until my cogitation was interrupted by Danny rapping on the door.
“Come on!” he huffed. “These cadavers aren’t going to dissect themselves.”
“Imagine that,” I murmured. “The self-dissecting cadaver. It’s right up there with self-basting turkeys and the pre-hurled brick.”
“You’re cracked, you are.” Danny regarded me with a mixture of unease and pity. “No wonder they keep you in the basement.”
*
I returned to the mortuary to find Urban-Smith waiting for me.
“What-ho, Rupert,” he cried merrily. “Mind if I glove up and wade in?”
“Erm, no. That’s fine.” I motioned to
the half-dozen bodies around the place. “See anything you fancy?”
“Yes, indeed. I thought we might start with this chap who seems to have swallowed an electric carving knife.”
“Are you still collecting case studies of suicide by power-tool?”
“Indeed I am, and this one’s a corker!”
The poor fellow looked surprisingly intact, considering the circumstances. In a fit of melancholia, he had first swallowed half a bottle of whiskey with a handful of painkillers, and then the aforementioned culinary appliance. Once the Carvomatic 100 was in situ in his lower oesophagus, he had switched the plug, et voilà; filet de gonze.
We rolled the body this way and that, looking for any other injuries, particularly blows or cuts that could be defensive in nature, but we found none.
While Danny prepared the corpse for further examination, I furnished Urban-Smith with the details of my conversation with Mrs Dolfin.
“Two things strike me,” said he. “Firstly, the absence of a telephone in the scenario, and secondly, the absence of witnesses to the doctor’s demise.”
“What are you suggesting?”
“I am not suggesting anything; merely highlighting the contrast between this death and that of Professor Gorshkov.”
“Any thoughts on the glass eye?” This had struck me as rather curious, and I was keen for Urban-Smith’s opinion on the matter.
“It does seem odd that he should have kept mum about it, but each to his own. I daresay it was a most convincing facsimile of the original article.”
“I daresay,” I concurred. “And how have you fared, Fairfax? Have you made any progress?”
“A little,” he replied. “I have spoken to Dr Grove, but he confesses no knowledge of Dr Dolfin, though he has e-mailed me a copy of Professor Gorshkov’s Curriculum Vitae which I shall digest this very afternoon. Additionally, I have perused the Metrosexual’s website, specifically those pages relating to the Department of Electronics and Electrical Engineering.”
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