The Burning

by Jane Casey

  Except for one thing. The picture above the mantelpiece. It was a glorious abstract, a whirl of blues and greys and white in choppy strokes that made me think of rushing water. It was an original, bought from the artist for an eye-watering amount of money, worth every penny and more. I had looked at it and loved it the first moment I saw it, at an art fair in Brick Lane, but I hadn’t paid for it. I wouldn’t have dared. Besides, I could never have convinced myself it wasn’t a waste of money to spend thousands on a painting when posters were cheap.

  Rebecca, who had dragged me to the art fair in the first place, had seen things differently.

  ‘You’ll love it when it’s up on the wall. You’ll have it for ever,’ she had predicted. ‘Let me get it for you, as a house-warming present.’

  I had demurred. Even for Rebecca, it was an extravagant gift. I had pulled her away and distracted her with some wrought-iron sculpture that neither of us liked.

  And yet I hadn’t been surprised when the parcel was delivered the following Saturday morning, an unframed canvas wrapped in layer upon layer of brown paper and bubble wrap, with a note from the artist that it was called Untitled: Blue XIX and he hoped I enjoyed owning it.

  I had done more than that. I had fallen in love with it. But, in a strange way, I had never felt it was really mine. In my mind, it was always Rebecca’s, an extension of her personality in canvas and oil. The sense of fast movement that it gave me; the sense, above all, of joy. That was her, not me.

  I opened my bag and unzipped the inside pocket, slowly setting out on the table in front of me a number of objects.

  A gold bangle, narrow and delicate.

  A Chanel lipstick, rose pink.

  A flat make-up mirror in a hard gunmetal-grey case.

  A pen, sleek and black, with GKM engraved on one side.

  A bottle of perfume, two-thirds full.

  A bright pink diary.

  A few old-fashioned double-edged razor blades in an envelope.

  A twist of paper that contained a small amount of white powder.

  Moving slowly, as if in a dream, I slipped the bangle on to my own arm where it hung, as weightless as a hair. I stretched out my hand, watching the bangle slip down to rest on my wrist, as I had seen it slide down Rebecca’s arm. I picked up the perfume bottle and sprayed a little into the air, scenting it with a fresh floral that made me think of blonde hair blowing in the breeze, of a smile that lit up the room, of summer in the heart of winter. I took the lipstick and the mirror and painted my mouth, shading in the curve of my lower lip, peering to see through the scratched and dusty surface of the glass. Soft pink. My skin pale. My eyes dark, pupils dilated, surprised to meet their own gaze. I snapped the mirror shut.

  The police would have told Rebecca’s parents by now. They would know what had happened, but not how, or why. They wouldn’t be able to believe that she was gone any more than I could. I could imagine their grief, though, and even though I felt as if I couldn’t speak to them, I knew I should. I went to sit on the bottom step of the stairs, knees together, toes gripping the carpet. My hands didn’t shake, even when I dialled the number I knew better than my own. The gold bangle spun and quivered on my arm and the deep voice of Rebecca’s father spoke in my ear: Hello, he said, Hello, and I couldn’t speak, couldn’t breathe through the crushing pain in my chest that was the weight of sorrow, but slowly, clumsily, I found the words at last.

  Chapter Four

  MAEVE

  Sam had thirty seconds left on the clock when he stumped down the steps of the Blue Building, pointedly looking at his watch.

  ‘Told you I’d make it.’

  ‘Just about. If I’d had to wait here any longer the tyres would have perished.’

  ‘Patience, my dear. Aaron was telling me all about our victim, along with a few other interesting tidbits. There are things you can’t rush, as you should know, being a woman.’

  ‘Don’t let that be innuendo. Please don’t let that be innuendo. Sexism I can take, but smut really will make me puke. Now, can we go?’ I was already starting the car.

  ‘Not yet.’ Sam was fussing, checking that he had his notebook, his pen, his phone, his folded newspaper and all the other bits and pieces that he considered it essential to carry around with him, today collected in a plastic bag of surpassing grubbiness. I sat with the engine running and my hands tight on the steering wheel, fuming, and when Godley came out of the Blue Building and stood on the steps, talking to DI Judd, I shrank down as far as I could and hoped like hell he wouldn’t notice us there. We’d been given our marching orders; we should have marched.

  Charlie Godley didn’t get to be a superintendent by missing much, though. Scanning the street with a practised gaze, he spotted me immediately and strode across to the car, his overcoat flapping in the wind as if invisible hands were tugging it. He leaned down to the window I fumbled to open.

  ‘Still here? Just as well; it saves me a phone call. If you want to come along, I’m going to the morgue. Glen’s doing the PM for me as soon as he can fit it in.’

  ‘M-me?’ I stammered, thinking that I’d done better than I’d thought with my suggestion of talking to the neighbours. ‘I’d love to. I mean …’

  I’d love to. It sounded all wrong when you knew I was talking about seeing a young woman’s body cut up.

  ‘Makes sense that if you’re going to be dealing with her family and friends, you should get to know her inside and out.’

  ‘Was that a joke, sir?’ I risked.

  ‘Certainly not.’ He grinned. I was definitely back in favour for the time being. ‘Sam, I take it you don’t want to come.’

  ‘I’ve seen more than my fair share and I’ve no interest in seeing any more, thank you very much.’ Sam looked at me piteously. ‘You wouldn’t be able to drop me back to the nick, would you? It’s just that my knees don’t like the Underground. All those steps.’

  ‘Not if it’s going to make me late,’ I gritted through clenched teeth that he could take for a smile if he wanted to.

  ‘You’ve got time,’ Godley said tolerantly. ‘Glen’s starting at six. You know where you’re going, don’t you?’

  I did; Dr Hanshaw worked out of one of the big hospitals in central London and I knew where the mortuary was. The basement. It suited him and his work. I would be there on time if I had to throw Sam from the moving car to do it. Godley was opening a door for me again and I would take advantage of the opportunity or die trying.

  In fact, with the exception of Rebecca Haworth herself, no one had to die and I made it to the mortuary with time to spare, having driven Sam right to the door of the police station. The last I saw of him was a stout figure shuffling happily inside, trousers sagging as usual. His brown anorak was wadded up under one arm, kept in reserve in case the weather got ‘really cold’. I had the fan heater in the car blowing at maximum strength and I was still freezing in my giant coat, my fingernails blue-tinged and my feet like ice. I couldn’t imagine what Sam’s version of ‘really cold’ would be. All I knew was that I didn’t want to be around for it.

  It was five minutes to six when I arrived and found Godley in the reception area of the morgue. He was sitting on a low chair with his arms folded and his eyes closed. I walked forward on my toes, trying to keep my shoes from making too much noise on the tiled floor so as not to disturb him. Without opening his eyes, he said, ‘Good timing, Maeve.’

  My shoulders slumped. ‘How did you know I was here?’

  ‘It’s my job to be omniscient.’

  I wondered if the superintendent knew that his nickname among the younger members of the squad was ‘God’, then grinned to myself; if he really knew everything, he’d certainly have heard that.

  ‘Glad I was able to be here.’ I sounded enthusiastic, but the mortuary smell of disinfectant overlaying something unspeakably rank was making me feel queasy already. On the way back to the station, Sam had been ghoulishly delighted to tell me about post-mortems he had attended, complete with detaile
d descriptions of maggots seething out of chest cavities and bodies literally falling apart with decay. I had seen Rebecca Haworth’s body already that day and not felt ill, but I had never seen a human corpse dissected and I was beginning to regret my puppyish keenness to attend. The old rule about going to a post-mortem as part of police training was no longer enforced and I had never felt inclined to seek one out before.

  ‘Glen’s running a bit late.’ He stretched his arms over his head and yawned. ‘Sorry. Not enough sleep.’

  ‘Tell me about it,’ I said with feeling, then bit my lip. As a very junior member of the team, I wasn’t really in the same position as the superintendent. He had the weight of expectation on his shoulders as well as overall responsibility for the investigation. I couldn’t imagine how he was coping with the strain.

  ‘I bet you’ve been to hundreds of these,’ I said quickly.

  ‘A few. Is this your first?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Don’t worry. It won’t take long. And it’s interesting; you’ll forget what you’re looking at once Glen starts to explain what he’s finding.’ The superintendent raised his eyebrows. ‘You’re not squeamish, are you?’

  ‘No, sir,’ I lied. I had already decided that I was never going to be able to barbecue steak again after working on this case. In fact, the thought of cooking meat of any kind made my stomach turn over. Vegetarianism was looking ever more appealing.

  ‘“Hic locus est ubi mors gaudet succurrere vitae”,’ he read from a framed poster on the wall behind me. ‘This is the place where death rejoices to help those who live. It’s written somewhere in every morgue I’ve ever been in. Nice way of looking at it, isn’t it?’

  ‘Mmm.’ I twisted around to read the poster again, thinking about it. ‘This is where they tell us what happened to them, isn’t it? This is where they bear witness.’

  ‘With Glen’s help.’ He looked past me, then stood. ‘Ah, the man himself.’

  Dr Hanshaw had appeared in a doorway by the reception desk. ‘Sorry for the delay. We’re ready now.’

  I followed Godley on legs as wobbly as a newborn foal’s, suddenly wishing I was somewhere else. But if I was going to make a career of investigating murder, I had to steel myself. There would be worse things to see before I was finished with death. With that cheering thought, and a couple of deep breaths, I went through the double doors to the autopsy room where Rebecca Haworth’s remains were laid out on a high table, naked, ready for inspection. The beautiful Ali was nowhere to be seen; she didn’t spend a lot of time in the mortuary, as I understood it. Hanshaw dictated his findings and she typed the reports. It wasn’t, I knew, because she was squeamish – far from it; no one had ever seen her turn a hair at the most gruesome crime scene. But the pathologist didn’t like too much of a crowd around him when he was working. Godley didn’t count, because they were old friends, and I was there as Godley’s shadow, rather than in my own right, so he probably wouldn’t notice me. The only other person in the room was a pretty young man in surgical scrubs whom Hanshaw introduced as his technical assistant, Steven. As if to compensate for the surroundings, he was a ball of energy, with heavily streaked hair and three piercings in his left ear. He bounded around humming under his breath as he made the final preparations, as if there wasn’t a dead girl on a table in the middle of the room, as if it was just another day at work. Which it was, for him. And it should be routine for me, too, I told myself, squaring my shoulders and bracing myself for what was about to happen.

  ‘We’ve photographed her already and taken some samples for analysis.’ Dr Hanshaw was addressing me, his tone brusque but not unfriendly, and I guessed that Godley had asked him to explain the process to me as he went along. ‘We did find something odd when we undressed her. Her underwear was rolled over at the waist – the elastic tucked inside like this – and lower on the right side than the left.’ He demonstrated, folding the waistband of his scrubs so the elastic was turned towards his body. ‘That suggested to me that she was dressed by someone else rather than dressing herself. It’s awkward and she wouldn’t have been comfortable to be walking around like that. I don’t think she was conscious when she was dressed either.’

  Godley frowned. ‘Sexual assault?’

  ‘I haven’t found any sign of it.’ He shrugged. ‘I’m not sure what to make of it, but it doesn’t fit in with the other Operation Mandrake cases. With the last four there was no sign of the clothing being disturbed, beyond what you might expect if someone was dragged across the ground – everything skewed a few inches out of place and so forth. But her dress was pulled down neatly. It was just the underwear that wasn’t correctly positioned.’

  ‘What else?’

  ‘Points of interest. She has an old injury, a fractured cheekbone. Healed, so certainly not recent. I’ve requested her medical records from her GP; you might be able to get the full story from her family. And there was this.’ Dr Hanshaw lifted Rebecca’s right hand, turning it so we could see the backs of her fingers. He had cleaned a patch of skin that had escaped the worst of the fire damage. ‘Do you see these marks on the first and second fingers, just before the knuckles? I know it’s hard to see with the burns, but there are marks that show up under UV light. They’re scar tissue. My best guess is that they were caused by repeated instances of her teeth rubbing against her skin when she stuck her fingers down her throat.’

  ‘Why would she do that?’ Godley asked.

  ‘She was making herself throw up to stay thin,’ I supplied without thinking. I had gone to an all-girls school; if there was one thing I knew about, it was eating disorders.

  The pathologist nodded. ‘Quite right. Bulimia nervosa. There’s considerable acid damage to the enamel of her teeth too. I would guess that this was a long-standing condition. She was significantly underweight – forty-seven kilos.’

  ‘What’s that in real money?’ the superintendent demanded.

  ‘A hundred and four pounds; seven stone six. She was five foot seven or thereabouts; her BMI was just over sixteen. BMI is body mass index,’ Dr Hanshaw explained rapidly, perhaps for my benefit. ‘A healthy BMI would have been somewhere between eighteen and twenty-five. The eating disorder complicates things for us a bit in terms of establishing when she died. There may not have been much left of her last meal. Not that I ever recommend stomach contents as a guide to when a person died. Fear puts the brakes on the digestive system. Anger speeds it up. Serious injury can stop it altogether. My preferred method would be body temperature, but with these burning cases, I obviously can’t use that.’

  ‘But you’ve been able to make an estimate.’ It wasn’t a question. Godley knew that the pathologist would have a fairly shrewd idea, no matter how much he protested that calculating it accurately was impossible.

  He grunted. ‘Hard to say. I can’t rely on rigor mortis either because of the burning; it contracts the muscle fibres. I might only be able to tell you if she was dead or alive when the fire was started. We’ll see more when I open her up, but I didn’t observe any soot in the airways. Now, the fire damage. Consistent with the other victims of your serial killer. Her palms and fingers were soaked in petrol, but not her face. She has full thickness burns to her forearms and thighs and her abdomen; partial thickness burns to her neck and chest. I’d estimate she has burn damage on just over fifty per cent of her body.’ He looked at me again. ‘Do you know how it’s calculated? No? This area’ – he held up his hand and circled the palm – ‘counts as about one per cent of your total body area, so that’s how we measure irregular areas of burning. In a case like this, where the damage is extensive, we use the rule of nines. We allow nine per cent for each arm and the head. Eighteen per cent for each leg. Eighteen per cent for the front of the torso. Eighteen per cent for the back. And we allow the per cent for the genitals.’

  I realised as the pathologist went on speaking that Godley had been right: I was interested. So interested that I had almost forgotten that the shape in front of us had once b
een a person, an individual with hopes and dreams and feelings. Now she was a problem to be solved, a mystery to be explored. But that didn’t mean I could suppress a shudder as Dr Hanshaw picked up a scalpel and began to cut into the body, laying open the torso in a Y-shape that ran from each shoulder down to the pubic bone.

  He went through the organs quickly, weighing them, taking samples, dissecting them, showing us what he’d found. Everything was normal; she was healthy enough, in spite of her lifestyle. She had had years yet before it caught up with her. The colours of her organs were unexpectedly bright, the shapes familiar from butchers’ slabs, and I found myself reminded of nothing so much as the crime-scene photographs of Jack the Ripper’s last victim, Mary Jane Kelly, dismembered, displayed, a heap of shadowy viscera on a table behind her. The repellent images collided in my mind with what I was watching and made my head spin. I put out my hand for balance and encountered the superintendent’s sleeve. He looked around at me quickly.

  ‘Feeling OK? Do you want to take a break? Get some air?’

  I shook my head and managed a smile; I didn’t quite dare to speak.

  ‘I’ve taken blood samples,’ Hanshaw announced, ‘so we can get that tested along with the hair and find out what she’d been taking.’

  ‘We know she had a history of taking cocaine,’ Godley said.

  ‘I could have told you that from the state of her nose. Significant damage to the septum. I took samples from her eye as well; the vitreous humour is a good place to get a chemical profile when a body has been exposed to heat. I’ll take some urine for analysis, and preserve the stomach contents, such as they are, for toxicology.’