Body Heat

by Candy Denman

  “Have you finished here, Doctor?”

  “Yes.” She couldn’t believe he was dismissing her like this. “All finished.”

  Miller returned his attention to the fire investigator.

  Callie walked slowly back towards the crime scene perimeter to sign out and get out of her crime scene clothing. Once done, she looked back at the remains of the car where Butterworth was walking carefully round the outside, taking a look at the damage, peering into the open boot and through the blown-out windows before he crouched down beside driver’s door and took a look at the body. She listened carefully, keen to hear what was said.

  “I’ll take samples to confirm, but I’m pretty sure an accelerant has been used,” he said as he looked carefully round the site.

  “From the fuel tank exploding?” Miller queried.

  Butterworth pointed to some scorched grass and some faint marks still visible across the rear floor of the car.

  “I’ll need to have a more detailed look, but, for what it’s worth, my initial impression is that it’s not from the fuel tank exploding. See those lines there?” he pointed at some marks in the scorched grass. “They’re called pour patterns, and are from when the accelerant was splashed about.”

  “But the victim could’ve doused the car before getting in and setting it alight, right?” Jeffries asked.

  Butterworth gave Jeffries a pitying look and called across to Colin Brewer.

  “Have your guys turned up a container yet?”

  Brewer shook his head.

  “No,” Brewer paused, before adding with a look at Miller, “and we’ve completed the preliminary search of the area.”

  Butterworth turned to Miller.

  “Can’t see the remains of anything that could have been used to hold the accelerant in the car, so, unless it’s been thrown quite a distance or someone’s nicked it−”

  “It’s not suicide.” Miller finished for him and looked across at Callie who tried not to look triumphant to have had her view confirmed.

  * * *

  “He was being a completely arrogant−” Callie struggled for the right word.

  “Sod.” Kate happily supplied it for her furious friend, knowing her dislike of using even the mildest of swear-words. “Prick. Bastard. Wanker. Take your pick, so to speak.”

  It was ten o’clock on Sunday morning and Callie was recovering from her early morning call to the scene of the burnt-out car by having coffee with her best friend. They were in Kate’s sitting room, a room of rich jewel colours and textures. Deep red velvet curtains, a purple patterned throw on the burgundy plush sofa. It was too early for Kate to be up and dressed after her usual Saturday night social life, so she was wrapped in a soft and comfortable robe, patterned with swirls of pink and purple. Not something that Callie was ever likely to wear. The two friends’ taste was different as their characters. If Kate was an overflowing bowl glass of Merlot, warm, dark and full-bodied, then Callie was a precise 175ml measure of Pinot Grigio in a champagne flute, cool, light and crisp.

  “There we were, at the crime scene, and he treats me like I’m something he trod in. Didn’t acknowledge me or, or what happened, at all.”

  Callie brushed a speck of dust from her immaculate jeans, the clothes she had been wearing at the crime scene had gone straight in the washing machine as soon as she had got home and she had spent a long time in the shower, washing herself and her hair in a mix of shampoo and lemon juice in an attempt to get rid of the smell before coming to see Kate.

  “Perhaps he was waiting for you to say something, after all, he did save your life a few months ago,” Kate countered.

  “I would have, but he made sure I didn’t get a chance.” Callie was still seething. “He hasn’t been in touch since the last case was closed and when we do meet, over this poor woman’s body, he completely ignores me.”

  “I think the relevant point there is ‘over this poor woman’s body’. He was probably just keeping it professional.”

  Callie wasn’t about to be pacified that easily.

  “And as for Jeffries describing her as crispy bacon, well that’s hardly professional, is it? In fact, it’s just plain disrespectful.”

  “You know what he’s like. Policemen’s black humour, it keeps them sane. Or comparatively sane, anyway.”

  Kate was a solicitor, specialising in criminal work and so had a better than passing knowledge of the policemen at the local station in Hastings where both of them worked and lived. Like Callie, the majority of her clients were low-level cases of drink driving, drug possession and drunken assaults. As a forensic physician, or police doctor as she was sometimes called, Callie would take their blood samples, assess any injuries and declare them fit for interview, or not, and Kate would represent them legally during their interviews.

  Kate’s practice, Harriman Sydenham and Partners, actually consisted of just her and her long-dead partner, Neville Sydenham, and no one could quite remember who Harriman had been or if he had ever existed at all. She had kept the firm’s name after Neville’s death from cirrhosis of the liver because she couldn’t be bothered to change it and because getting all their stationery reprinted would have cost an arm and a leg. Now there was just Kate and a succession of temps to answer the phone and she longed for the day when she would have enough work to afford a legal clerk to send to the police station and support clients in the middle of the night, rather than having to go there herself.

  “So, what do you think happened? How did that poor girl die?”

  Callie sighed and took a sip of her coffee.

  “Well, it looks like she was still in the car when it was torched and that they didn’t wait for her to get out.”

  “What an awful, awful accident and a terrible way to go.” They sipped in silence as they thought about the victim’s last few moments of life.

  “I can’t help thinking that it wasn’t accidental,” Callie said at last.

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because the car was parked up against a wooden post, so the passenger door couldn’t open, and they must have known she was still inside.”

  “That’s terrible. You don’t even want to think about what must have been going through her mind when she realised.”

  “No,” Callie responded thoughtfully. “You don’t.”

  Callie blew her nose, hoping to clear the last of the smell that was probably now only inside her head.

  “Do you think she was a specific target or just random?”

  “There’s really no way of knowing that yet.”

  “I suppose not.” Kate thought for a moment. “I sincerely hope she was targeted, I’d hate to think there was someone out there doing it for kicks.”

  “Yes,” Callie agreed. “Because that would mean he might do it again.”

  Kate gave a shudder and quickly changed the subject.

  “How’s your dad since whatsisname the pathologist died?” Kate asked, reaching for another biscuit. Callie was thankful for the chance to discuss something other than the horrible death.

  “As well as can be expected, considering he and Ian were such good friends,” she answered.

  Ian Dunbar had been the local pathologist, her father’s oldest friend and Callie’s godfather. In fact, she believed he was to blame for her being named Calliope. Now that Ian Dunbar was dead, killed by the man who had so nearly killed Callie a few months before, it was a name used by a dwindling number of people, for which she was very grateful.

  “Speaking of good friends, how’s the love life?”

  “Very subtle.” Callie smiled. “And non-existent.”

  “Not even any blind dates or one-night stands?”

  “Nada.”

  “That’s a shame. I always love hearing about them afterwards. The rich merchant banker who liked to be spanked or the academic who insisted that mealtimes should be silent so that his digestion wasn’t disturbed.”

  Callie smiled.

  “At least that date was quite peaceful
, but he really couldn’t understand why I didn’t want to see him again.” She sighed. “So, come on, if your love life is so successful, tell me all about it.”

  Kate curled up on the over-stuffed sofa like a cat who had got the cream.

  “I thought you’d never ask. I’ve been dying to tell you.” She settled herself comfortably. “I met him at the gym.”

  “You went to the gym? Without me dragging you there?”

  “Well, only to the café, it’s a such great spot to ogle the talent. All those muscles. All that sweat.”

  Kate giggled and Callie gave an exaggerated sigh again, but sat back to enjoy the story of Kate’s latest conquest, happy to forget her troubles: her own lack of a love life, the arrogance of Detective Inspector Miller, the insensitivity of his sergeant and the awfulness of the burnt corpse in the car. For the moment, at least.

  Chapter 2

  Monday mornings are always the busiest time for a doctor’s surgery and all the staff were expected to pull their weight and see extra patients. No sickness was allowed either, amongst the staff that is, and Callie knew it was the one time of the week when Dr Hugh Grantham, the senior partner at the practice, would not tolerate her taking time off for her police work, so she had to fit it in during her breaks.

  Callie wanted to find some time get to the mortuary, not only to find out what was happening with the woman who had died so horrifically in the car, but also to get the post-mortem report on one of her patients who had recently died unexpectedly. The latter reason being the one she would use if questioned by Dr Grantham. She was speeding through her patients as quickly as she could, not even stopping for a coffee break, and was irritated when she noticed that an extra had been added to her list, and even worse that it was Mr Herring, her least favourite patient. A fussy little man, and a hypochondriac, he persistently refused to believe Callie’s assertion that there was nothing seriously wrong with him and it was her constant fear that one day, simply to spite her, he would be proved right.

  Knowing that it was best to get it over with, she pressed the buzzer to call him in, and seconds later the door opened. He must have been standing at the waiting room door, ready to rush to her room the moment the buzzer went.

  “Hello Mr Herring, do take a seat. What can I do for you today?”

  “I must congratulate you, Doctor. One minute early. First time that has ever happened. Perhaps we will be able to get through a few of my outstanding complaints.”

  Callie tried not to show her dismay as Mr Herring brought a piece of note paper with a list written in his small and precise script covering the whole of the page.

  “Number one. Bowel actions. Now these have been less regular of late…”

  * * *

  Once she had finally persuaded Mr Herring to leave with a completely unnecessary prescription clutched in his hand, Callie leant back in her chair with a sigh. She was now running late despite her good start and desperately needed a break, something to eat and a cup of coffee, but she knew she would have a mountain of paperwork waiting for her in the office upstairs and if she ventured up to use the kitchen she wouldn’t be allowed to leave it until later.

  Callie sighed; just thinking about how busy she was made her feel tired. Running two part-time jobs, as a GP and a police doctor, was supposed to give her variety and flexibility but, more often than not, just meant that she worked long hours and satisfied nobody, including herself.

  She closed her eyes for a moment and leant back in her chair. If it came to choosing just one role, GP or forensic physician, which would she pick? Her mother would tell her that her reluctance to accept a full partnership and give up the police work was simply another way of avoiding commitment, like she usually did, particularly where men were concerned. Callie yawned delicately.

  She was startled awake by a knock on the door and looked up at the clock as Linda Crompton, the practice manager came in.

  “Taking a nap, were we?” she asked.

  “Just closing my eyes for a moment.” Callie was relieved to see that she really had only been asleep for a minute or two.

  Linda put a cup of coffee on the desk and added a couple of chocolate digestives beside it.

  “I thought you might need these after Mr Herring,” she said.

  “Thank you, I do, even though I am deeply suspicious that you have an ulterior motive.” Callie gestured at the bundle of prescriptions Linda was holding.

  “Always,” Linda agreed. “Dr Brown feels he has done enough this morning and has left without doing these urgents. I thought if you could just check and sign them for him?” Linda hesitated slightly because she knew it wasn’t Callie’s job, but equally she knew Callie wouldn’t let patients go without urgently needed medication just because someone else didn’t care.

  “Oh, for the luxury of being a locum and not feeling any sense of responsibility.”

  “I don’t think Dr Brown would feel any sense of responsibility even if he was substantive.” Linda harrumphed. “The man’s a royal pain in the you-know-what and the fact that he’s still here is simply a measure of how desperate we are. Last week he left a baby clinic dead on four when there were still two patients waiting.”

  “So I heard,” Callie said as she started signing the forms. “Gauri told me all about it. At length.” Dr Gauri Sinha was one of the full-time partners at the practice and had been incensed when she had been called in to see the last two babies for the locum.

  “There,” she said as she handed the last of the prescriptions to Linda. “Can you call down my visits and let me know if there’s anything urgent I need to deal with now? I’ll do the rest when I get back.”

  She smiled at Linda, who knew full well what Callie was trying to avoid, but reluctantly agreed to help.

  * * *

  Callie was walking fast as she approached the mortuary, which had been built on the far side of Hastings General Hospital and was some distance from any of the visitor car parks. A row of leylandii had been planted in a poor attempt to screen the building from public view. Callie entered by an unmarked side door. The corridor it led to was windowless and led only to the lift that took her down to the mortuary.

  As Callie stepped out of the lift, she was struck by the silence. Ian Dunbar had often played music as he worked, but now there was nothing. She shuddered slightly and wondered if she would ever be able to enter this place without remembering how she had found Ian Dunbar’s body in the autopsy suite. She had been here since, of course, speaking with the stream of locum pathologists as the hospital struggled to replace Dr Dunbar. It was sad that they hadn’t found anyone permanent, but it seemed that nobody wanted to take a post in a mortuary known for the horrific murder of its pathologist, and who could blame them? She gave herself a mental shake, hurrying along the corridor to the main office and saw with relief that the door was open and Lucy Cavendish, the current locum pathologist, was in there, speaking to Mike Parton, the coroner’s officer.

  “Hello, Mike,” Callie said and he nodded, giving her a small, dignified smile and looking for all the world like a funeral director.

  “Good morning, Dr Hughes.”

  “Lucy, glad to see you are still here,” Callie continued.

  Lucy scowled. She was a thin colourless woman in her thirties with a pointy face and a permanent look of discontent. She was completely swamped by her hospital scrubs and their dingy green colour did nothing for her pale and rather sallow complexion.

  “Why?”

  Callie had to admit it was a good question. Lucy was miserable and angry that she had ended up in a backwater like Hastings when she considered she was worthy of a much better position. Unfortunately, a minor professional mishap in her past had left her with little choice.

  “Well, it’s nice to have a bit of continuity,” Callie managed to say, and looked to Parton for support.

  “Absolutely, yes.”

  Callie knew he missed Ian Dunbar almost as much as she did.

  Lucy pursed her lips and
returned to her computer screen, ignoring them both.

  “What’s happening to the burns case from yesterday, Mike?” Callie asked as Lucy pounded on the keyboard, taking out her frustration on the inanimate object.

  Parton cleared his throat and looked uncomfortable and Lucy snorted with derision.

  “The great Home Office Pathologist has decided to work from a better facility,” she said, despite the question having been directed at Parton. “Apparently this humble workplace isn’t good enough for him.”

  “It was decided to transport the deceased to the Brighton and Sussex Mortuary as it is better equipped to handle the more delicate requirements of a badly burned corpse.” Parton responded tactfully, totally ignoring the pathologist’s outburst.

  Lucy finished typing and the printer by her side whirred into action. She grabbed the sheet of paper as soon as it was spewed out by the machine and handed it to Parton.

  “Thank you, Dr Cavendish. Much obliged.” He tucked the paper into his briefcase, gave Callie a solemn nod and left.

  Callie gave Lucy a nervous smile.

  “Brighton again?”

  She was well aware that most of those working in Hastings felt that the money, and kudos, always went to Brighton, but it was a bigger hospital, attached to a university and medical school, serving a larger population and Callie had no doubt that it was reasonable for it to be better equipped. Lucy scowled at Callie again, managing to convey that, like the burnt corpse, she was better suited to the facilities provided in Brighton.

  “Have you come here for a reason? Or are you just being nosy?”

  Callie didn’t quite know how to respond to such rudeness and couldn’t think of any other reason to be there, so she just shook her head and left the office.

  Disappointed not to have got anything useful from the pathologist, Callie stopped by the autopsy suite to have a word with the mortuary technician who was the direct opposite of the man he had replaced. Small and thin, with more tattoos than teeth, he was, nonetheless, helpful when she needed information or results.