by Marni Graff
*
When they returned to the drawing room, the inspector had finished his questioning. Watkins spoke next, suggesting Janet Wallace travel into Oxford later to the John Radcliffe Hospital to formally identify her daughter’s body that evening.
“Stay with me tonight, Janet,” Val offered. “It will be late, and you won’t be in any shape to come back by taxi.”
When the woman murmured that she didn’t want to cause any trouble, Nora stepped in. “At least overnight, Mrs. Wallace. You shouldn’t be alone. We’ll be happy to take you with us back to Oxford.”
“It’s probably the best idea,” Barnes agreed. “You’ll be required to testify at the inquest, and we might have a better idea when that will be by tomorrow.”
Both detectives expressed their condolences again to the bereaved mother, and with Val accompanying them, they left to return to Oxford.
Val had already notified Janet’s employers, who would be arriving shortly to take over her duties; they insisted she take off as much time as she needed. Not only was Janet a valued employee, but they had both known Bryn as a girl and were shocked at the news of her violent death.
“I’ll need to pack a bag,” Janet said but continued to sit.
Nora said, “No rush. Let’s take a walk through town for a few minutes, Simon. I need to get in my daily constitutional.” She raised her eyebrows in Janet’s direction, and Simon understood she wanted to give the grief-stricken woman a few moments of privacy. As they left, Janet was leafing through one of a series of photograph albums she had compiled of her only child, tracing the history of the daughter she had loved and lost.
Chapter Ten
“Death is always the same, but each man dies in his own way.”
— Carson McCullers, Clock Without Hands
4:30 PM
Charlie Borden was known to be punctual, in life and in the pathology lab. Therefore Declan was not surprised when, after returning Val Rogan to her flat, he got the call telling him Charlie was ready to review the postmortem with him. Declan directed Watkins to drive him to St. Aldate’s Station, where he could pick up the MGB. He left Watkins combing through the initial reports and interviews that filtered in before they were logged into the Home Office Large Major Enquiry System computer network. It was a collation of information on similar serious crimes, and Declan wondered how long it took the person who created the system’s acronym to get it to read HOLMES.
The John Radcliffe Hospital, Declan’s destination, was known locally as “the JR” and had a newly built mortuary. Every accommodation had been made in the public areas to soften the harsh reality of its purpose. But in the pathology lab, the rooms had the sterile air, tile floor, and preponderance of stainless steel that spoke of areas washed down regularly with disinfectant.
Declan was not surprised to see the postmortem advance promptly.
“All set?” Charlie asked before dictating his assessment on the external exam of Bryn Wallace. He began by noting her height and weight and the location of her wounds. His assistant helped the pathologist roll her body onto its side as he examined her back and dictated his findings, then rolled her back. “Can you grab a pint later?”
“Maybe a quick one after the formal ID,” Declan responded.
“Let’s go then.” Charlie picked up a scalpel and made the usual Y incision down Bryn Wallace’s torso.
Declan sucked hard on the strong peppermints he used to help disguise the fetid odors of death. All of the worst smells he had ever experienced merged here, mingled with the rank metallic odor he associated with blood.
Declan considered the postmortem a source of vital information and didn’t dwell on the gaping cavity and slicing of internal organs as the post advanced. He steeled himself to view the scene unfolding before him as if he were looking at a stage set. He thought it fantastical, the bright mustard yellows, blues and maroons of the body’s interior contrasting sharply against the bloodless, almost translucent, chalky skin. It was all more startling than anything a Hollywood director could hope to produce.
Charlie grunted as the assistant helped him turn the body over one last time, and after inspecting the wound between Bryn Wallace’s shoulder blades, he turned her back. Stripping off his gloves and mask, he finished dictating into the microphone suspended from the ceiling, while his assistant weighed her organs and prepared microscope slides prior to sewing the organs back inside of her. The pathologist beckoned Declan closer.
Stripping off his own mask, Declan wondered if Charlie’s beard trapped the odors of the pathology suite.
“It would appear the posterior wound was the original entry site, just below the scapula. The slight downward angle indicates a small degree of height over the victim.” Charlie indicated the area on Declan’s back. “It was made with a large, thin, pointed blade, very much like the fillet knife missing from that kitchen rack. This sliced the pulmonary artery and punctured the lung, causing massive internal hemorrhaging into the body cavity, and it was the lethal injury.”
Declan made several notes as Charlie continued.
“Two other stab wounds to the abdomen were not as deep, missing vital organs. The wounds to the dorsal aspect of the hands and arms were defensive. Here is what I surmise might have happened, and note I use ‘surmise’ and ‘might have happened’ deliberately.”
Declan nodded. Charlie couldn’t testify that this was exactly the way the murder happened, but years of experience told them it would be very close if not exact.
“The lass opens the door to someone she knows. They talk or argue, and she goes into the kitchen with the murderer following as the argument escalates. Her mistake was turning her back on someone she trusted. The knife was handy, the first wound made, and she spins around, instinctively putting her hands up across her face as the killer keeps lashing out, scoring two in the belly.” Charlie sighed. “She would lose consciousness rapidly from the first wound, and the killer seems to have run out of steam, leaving the flat with enough thought to take the knife with him.”
Or her, Declan thought, thinking of Val Rogan.
Charlie looked over at the well-formed slim body that had once been Bryn Wallace and shook his head. “She was a pretty one.”
Declan agreed, going back a few pages in his notebook. “Charlie, the way the body was found this morning, did it look arranged to you?”
The pathologist scratched his beard. “I wondered that earlier. There was a symmetry to the arms and legs that would be difficult to achieve in a natural fall. Oh, one other thing,” he said, consulting his own handwritten notes. “There was little external blood, except for the small slice across the radial artery, which left the spray across the cupboard and might have gotten the killer’s clothes, but not much.”
“Easily covered with a coat, then?”
“Yes, I’d say so. If the killer hid the knife in a pocket and threw a coat or jacket on, I doubt anyone passing in the street would know he’d just committed cold-blooded murder.”
Declan raised his head. “You said he? Could a woman have done this?”
“Oh, I’d say so, if she were a bit taller than the victim, and angry enough. Wallace was 177.2 centimeters and was certainly taken by surprise.”
“And stabbing is still the most common form of homicide in the UK,” the inspector added as they headed for the changing room, where he put in a call to Watkins.
“Any joy?” Declan asked, pulling off his second paper suit of the day.
“We can go over a few things from the house-to-house that bear looking into. All done at your end?”
Declan visualized his first interview with Val Rogan in the entryway of Bryn Wallace’s building. She had come up to about his chin. “Just finished. Say Watkins, how tall do you think Valentine Rogan is?”
Ch
apter Eleven
“Whatever crazy sorrow saith,
No life that breathes with human breath
Has ever longed for death.”
— Alfred, Lord Tennyson, The Two Voices
6 PM
When the mortuary assistant appeared, Val stood up, then blanched as if she would faint. Quickly Nora rose and took her arm, lending support. She looked back at Simon, who urged her on with his hands, picking up a magazine in the waiting room and sitting down. Val wrapped her other arm protectively around Janet’s waist as the three women were led down a hallway and into a room with muted lighting. They stood before a curtained window, Nora on the other side of Val. Low classical music was piped into the room, Mozart, Nora thought. The door opened, and Detective Inspector Declan Barnes joined them.
“How are you holding up, Miss Wallace?” Declan asked sympathetically. “Have a bit of a rest before coming into town?”
Janet nodded. Nora saw her eyes stray to the closed curtain, anxious about the formalities.
Declan nodded, and the assistant pulled a cord on the left side of the window. The curtains parted. On the other side of the glass, in a circular room, Bryn Wallace lay on a stretcher immediately next to the window, neatly covered up to her neck with crisp white sheets. A morgue attendant stood silently next to her body as if guarding it.
Nora saw Val look away, as if by avoiding Bryn’s body she wouldn’t have to bring herself to confront this moment when loss would be undeniably confirmed. Nora followed Val’s eyes, focusing on the cream walls and terra-cotta ring of indirect lighting that ran around the room near the ceiling. It was set up as a nondenominational chapel, with a basic altar holding a vase of flowers. The unimportant details imprinted on Nora’s mind. She heard Janet suck in her breath, and Nora finally wrenched her eyes from the floral arrangement.
Even in death Bryn Wallace was lovely. With her chocolate eyes closed and her chestnut hair brushed and shining as it lay arranged over each shoulder, her face looked serene, her prominent cheekbones casting a delicate shadow. But on a closer look, Nora saw sophisticated lighting could not disguise the waxy look of death, the bluish tinge around her lips. Janet started to tremble, and Val grasped her tighter, squeezing her eyes shut. Nora couldn’t tell which one of them allowed a small moan to escape.
“That’s our Bronwyn,” Janet finally whispered, and Val nodded. Declan started to close the curtain, but Janet stepped forward, raising one hand.
“Please, just one more moment,” she asked. He dropped his hand and stood in respectful silence as Janet pulled Val closer to the window and gazed lovingly at her child.
Nora stepped back and met Declan’s eyes. She narrowed her gaze, willing him to see how upset Val was, how hard she was hit with the reality that the woman she loved was lost to her. These were not the actions of a murderer. Why couldn’t he see this?
Janet sighed. “Thank you,” she said to Declan Barnes, moving away, allowing him to guide them back to the waiting room. Simon rose as they entered the room. Declan finished his instructions.
Nora, a consummate list maker, took notes for the women. Next to her, Janet Wallace stood erect, her hand tucked into Val’s arm. The older woman shared the same wan countenance as the younger, listening to Declan Barnes.
“Miss Wallace will be kept here while a perpetrator is sought. If there’s an arrest shortly, the defense team has the right to request an independent postmortem, although in this case the results seem pretty straightforward.”
“And if no one is caught on a timely basis?” Val asked, one hand on her hip.
Nora cleared her throat. This wasn’t the time for Val to be snarky.
“Then an independent pathologist is called in, and those results are held for use by the defense when someone is caught. After the inquest the remains are usually released by the coroner, and you’ll be able to plan your private funeral arrangements.” With a glance at his watch, he summed up. “I’ll need you to come to the station tomorrow to make formal statements and sign the identification papers, say about 10 in the morning? You’ll be at Miss Rogan’s flat, Miss Wallace?”
“She’ll stay with me for a day or two at least,” Val said. “You have the number. I gave it to you during the hours I spent at your station this morning.” There was no mistaking Val’s anger.
Nora moved closer to her friend and gave her side a small pinch. Wake up! This is not the time to lose your temper with the lead detective.
“All right, I think we’re finished here.” The detective ignored Val’s tone. He handed business cards to all of them, including Simon and Nora. “I can be reached through St. Aldate’s if any of you think of anything useful.” He paused, then looked directly at Val. “And we’ll continue with you tomorrow, Miss Rogan.”
He turned to leave. Janet Wallace reached out and grabbed his arm.
“I’m counting on you, Inspector Barnes,” she said in a firm voice. “Find the bloody bastard who killed my little girl.”
Chapter Twelve
“In literal truth each of us has only one life to live, one death to die … ”
— Julian Symons, The Name of Annabel Lee
7:45 PM
Declan held himself to a quick pint with Charlie at the pub after gobbling down a pasty, then begged off to see what had come up in the department. By their usual agreement, they did not discuss the case in public, and Declan felt he had learned what he needed from Charlie at the autopsy. The finger still pointed at Val Rogan.
The night was sultry. Declan slung his jacket over his shoulder, walking back to the station, mulling over what he’d learned in today’s crowded hours. The image of red-haired Nora kept surfacing; he felt oddly drawn to her, admiring the way she had supported them all through the long afternoon and evening. She had bottle, as his mum used to say, a kind of gutsy attitude, and he wondered how she would react as he investigated her friend. He suspected she could be tenacious and hoped she would understand the boundaries of a formal investigation.
He dodged crowds of map-reading tourists and throngs of summer students, glued together in packs that spilled over the narrow sidewalk into the road. Raucous shouts from pubs along the street punctuated the clamor of the audience entering the Old Fire Station Theatre to see this year’s revival of The Importance of Being Earnest. He absorbed noises and colors intensely at this moment, recognizing that one part of dealing with death constantly was the deeper appreciation he gained for life, his and those of others. He hoped this kept him from turning callous. He certainly needed a curtain of distance but couldn’t overlook that the victim had once lived and breathed.
Declan believed that to be successful in his hunt for Bryn Wallace’s murderer, he had to know her well, her choices and her temperament. His competition was, after all, a ruthless killer. He would need to think and feel as she had, for only when he could see her life clearly would he know who had wanted her to die.
*
The cramped offices of the Criminal Investigation Department housed some twenty-four detectives in shifts, without benefit of air conditioning, and the August humidity in the building had risen to a level Declan deemed unhealthy for living things. As he slowly climbed the stairs, he saw a wilted-looking Watkins leaving the office, tie off, shirt collar hanging open, cotton material sticking to the sergeant’s chest in a way that made Declan feel even hotter and more uncomfortable. He paused in the hallway as they came abreast of each other.
“You look as wrung out as I feel,” Declan said.
“I’m for a shower in an air-conditioned room, and Julie better have it turned up on high,” Watkins replied. “I just left a note on your desk.”
“Anything important?”
“The bartender at The Blue Virgin confirms Rogan and Wallace met there last evening. House-to-house found a neighbor who hea
rd arguing from the flat late last night, and a computer run shows a sex pervert living on the same street.”
Declan raised an eyebrow. “Convicted?”
“After a bunch of complaints he finally got six months for exposing himself to children. Clean for the last four. McAfee left some of the vic’s mail on your desk—two personal letters you’ll want to see.”
“Thanks, I’ll check it out. Best leave it to me if you’re family liaison on this one. The mother’s staying with the Rogan woman in town. They’re coming down at 10 tomorrow to give a statement. Get some sleep—I’ll see you then.”
Yawning and waving goodnight, Watkins left, leaving Declan to remember the Watkins’ row last year over Julie wanting at least one room in their flat air conditioned, and her husband’s declaration that she had “gone American.” Tonight Declan envied him the pert Julie waiting at home in a cool bedroom, with a snack and who knew what else.
Entering his office with its regulation desk and solid chairs, Declan winced at the horrific yellow-green carpeting his predecessor had chosen. Someone had the gall to name it “Citron Au Vert.” He knew the name because he had petitioned to have the carpeting changed the same day he was promoted to this office, only to be shown the voucher indicating that the carpeting had been too recently installed to be changed. He suspected it had been a joke of sorts, a kind of “Sod off, you poor bastard” from the retiring Baxter to whomever would have the misfortune of inheriting his headaches.