The Case of the Missing Letter

by Alison Golden

  Marcus Tomlinson bustled into the room, carrying his black leather bag and a large travel mug of coffee. “Has he been moved?” the veteran pathologist asked at once.

  “No, Marcus. Sue and Alan know your drill, just like I do,” Graham reassured him.

  “Good,” Marcus said. “Good. Well done.” Tomlinson visibly relaxed, took a swig of coffee, and handed the mug to Graham. “Hold onto this for me.” The pathologist set down his bag and approached the body, immediately beginning to dictate his findings into his cellphone. Graham looked around but, unable to find a suitable place to set Tomlinson’s coffee, held onto it. The two paramedics exchanged a glance. They were required to stay until the body could be moved, and so were able to watch the highly experienced – even famous, at least in a local sense – Marcus Tomlinson at work.

  “The deceased has been preliminarily identified as Charles Norris, known to everyone as ‘Nobby’,” the pathologist was saying. “Formal identification will take place before the autopsy. The body is lying face down, at the foot of the Satterthwaite Desk, his head almost touching the right front leg of the desk. His left arm is splayed out under the desk itself.” At the pathologist’s request, Graham handed him the camera from his black bag, ultimately deciding to set Tomlinson’s coffee on the floor next to it. The pathologist began taking close-up photographs. “The head is turned slightly to the right, and there’s a quantity of blood underneath it. There’s an obvious laceration to the left temple.” Tomlinson looked more closely and specified, “A cranial avulsion. There’s also damage to the near-right corner of the desk, indicating that he fell and struck his head on it.”

  Graham peered closely. He winced at the obvious marring of desk’s workmanship, especially in such a manner. A smear of Nobby’s blood was visible on the cracked wood. “Are you thinking it was an accident?” he asked during a lull in Tomlinson’s recording.

  “I’m thinking,” the pathologist retorted, “that it was a fall. But that’s all we can say, as yet.”

  Graham knew that Tomlinson was, above all, a scientist. He would never jump to a conclusion. For Tomlinson, the evidence was the sole arbiter of events. Nothing beyond it would be considered, especially at such an early stage.

  “Alright, I’m going to take some measurements,” Tomlinson announced. “DI Graham, this won’t be very pleasant, I’m afraid.” The examiner lifted Nobby’s blue sweater and white shirt a few inches up his back and asked for Graham to bring his bag.

  “He has to measure the temperature,” Sue whispered knowingly to Alan. Sue had had five years with the States of Jersey Ambulance Service. She was fascinated by forensic pathology and liked to read up on the subject in her spare time, preferably in a sunny room accompanied by a mug of tea and her bulldog, Chester, snoring by her side. “But we can’t just use the surface of the skin or inside the mouth because we need to take the core temperature,” she explained to him. “Dr. Tomlinson will take a reading from within an internal organ. Typically,” she added, “the liver.” Alan listened patiently. He’d only been with the ambulance service for two years. He was Sue’s junior, a fact she repeatedly reminded him of one way or another.

  Tomlinson made an incision and gained his reading. “So, you’re a budding pathologist, eh?” he said, managing a friendly smile as he stood once more and turned to Sue.

  “Thinking about taking some courses, sir, yes.” Sue was petite and about twenty-six with dark hair tied back in a short ponytail.

  “Then you might be able to tell me how long ago this poor man died. Fancy giving it a try?”

  She nodded. “What’s his core temperature now, sir?”

  “Eighty-nine point eight degrees Fahrenheit,” Tomlinson announced. “Or thirty-two point one degrees Celsius, for the metrically minded. What does that tell you?”

  Sue did the math in her head. “That the victim has lost just under nine degrees Fahrenheit since death,” she said. “Typically, corpses lose one-point-five degrees per hour, so we can say he died around six hours ago.” She checked her watch. “Two in the morning.”

  “Excellent. Now, let’s see if the remaining evidence confirms that hypothesis. Let’s turn him onto his front.” The two paramedics and Tomlinson gingerly tipped Nobby’s body to the right and then laid him out flat on his back. They lifted his sweater and unbuttoned his shirt. “You see this, DI Graham?” Tomlinson asked.

  Graham was examining the paintings and other objects in the room. He turned quickly and immediately recognized the purple-blue marks on the victim’s chest and abdomen. “Lividity,” he said.

  “The pooling of blood under gravity, after the heart stops beating,” Tomlinson confirmed, turning to Sue and continuing his quiz. “But is it fixed or not?”

  Graham watched Tomlinson tutor the two much younger medics in the basics of forensic pathology for a moment and then turned back to the paintings. It was so like Marcus to make these opportunities, ‘teachable moments,” a chance to impart a little knowledge and help the next generation gain some practical experience.

  “It’s not quite fixed,” Sue decided. “Once we turned him onto his side, the purple patches began to move slowly away from his abdomen and toward his ribs.”

  “A very significant conclusion,” Tomlinson said, impressed. “Because fixed lividity begins at around eight to twelve hours after death, and we can therefore state…?” he said.

  “That the six-hour estimate of time elapsed since death is still roughly correct,” Sue said.

  “Or, more specifically, that the poor man expired no more than eight hours ago, and probably between six and eight,” Tomlinson told them. “So, what does that tell us about the time of death?”

  “Between midnight and two?” Alan dared.

  “Spot on. Now, one more thing to examine before we move the body to the lab. Anyone want to guess what it is?” Graham remained silent, perusing the collection and allowing Tomlinson his professorial moment. Neither Alan nor Sue responded. “Rigor mortis,” Tomlinson said with a flourish. “Take his fingers… go on,” he said to the reluctant Sue. “Can you move them?”

  “A little bit,” Sue said, taking the pale fingers in her gloved hands with obvious distaste.

  “But the grip is not yet rigid, you’d say?”

  “Not yet,” she agreed.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  ROACH APPEARED JUST as the three medics were pressing and turning the dead man’s joints. He shivered at the sight. “I’ve been looking around the outside of the building, and I’ve found something, sir. In the store room on the other side of the house,” he whispered to Graham, not wanting to disturb the others.

  “Right, good lad,” Graham whispered back. “I’ll be along in five.”

  Tomlinson checked Nobby’s elbows and knees. “A little more than halfway to complete stiffness, I’d wager,” he said. “This tells us two things. It’s more evidence for our time-of-death hypothesis, because rigor sets in completely within twelve hours. But if we’re right, and his death occurred between midnight and two o’clock, his state of rigor mortis should be much more pronounced than it is. Our victim must have had a high level of ATP in his system when he died.”

  “ATP?” Alan asked. He was younger than Sue, perhaps early twenties, and had bright, curious eyes that darted around, gathering data quickly as they went. The two paramedics were the opposite of the cynical, jaded, older types Graham had experienced in London.

  “Adenosine triphosphate,” the Inspector told them from the other side of the room, where he was examining a case of military medals. “It’s a chemical which is important for muscular energy. ATP is sustained by oxygen from our blood flow, but that obviously ceases at death. This loss of ATP brings about the muscular stiffness we call rigor mortis.”

  “Excellent, DI Graham. If you weren’t such a fine detective, I’d recommend switching careers to medicine,” Tomlinson said. “So, we’re able to conclude that our victim died somewhere between midnight and two o’clock. He fell onto his front
and wasn’t moved. He definitely hit his head on this desk, causing a serious wound to his left temple. But was that what killed him?” Tomlinson asked.

  His younger companions looked at him, wide-eyed. “We’ll find out later when we get him back to the morgue,” Tomlinson finished disappointingly. He directed the paramedics to wrap the body in plastic. He then watched as they carefully transferred it to a black body bag and onto the waiting gurney. Tomlinson walked out with them to the ambulance. Graham followed.

  “What’s your gut telling you, Marcus?” he asked. “Natural causes, or…?”

  “He fell,” the older man repeated. “I’ll know more by the end of the day.”

  Graham frowned. “I’ve got a funny feeling about this one,” he said as the ambulance doors closed. “Let me know as soon as you have anything.”

  Tomlinson shook the DI’s hand. “Depend on it.”

  Turning away, Graham saw that standing outside the front entrance watching the ambulance trundle off down the street was the museum curator.

  “Mr. Harris-Watts?” Graham said as the vehicle disappeared from view. The man, despite his earlier distress, seemed reluctant to drag his eyes away from the sight to focus on Graham.

  “Yes?”

  Graham ushered him inside. “We need to have a further word, sir. Would you be so kind as to walk me through your collections?”

  It had not taken Constable Roach long to find the broken window at the back of the museum. It opened onto a storeroom for objects that were ‘resting.’ They were items that were either part of the museum’s rotating displays or were awaiting repair or appraisal.

  “The intruder,” Roach concluded, “broke this window, climbed through into the museum, and then left the same way.”

  “Damn,” Harris-Watts said bitterly. “The blighter did something as simple as break in through a window?”

  “We’ll see.” Graham looked around the room. “Tell me more about the method of entry, Roach. What does it show us?”

  “He just broke the glass and climbed through, sir,” Roach said. “There’s no obvious attempt to force the window open, or to saw, or cut around the lock. Guess he wanted to just get in, do his business, and get out. What did Dr. Tomlinson say about our victim?”

  “Just that he fell. I think he had a heart attack before he fell or died from a head wound when he fell.”

  Harris-Watts shuddered.

  Roach lifted his eyebrows as high as they would go. “Dr. Tomlinson wouldn’t like us speculating about Mr. Norris’ death, sir. Not without any evidence.”

  “That’s true. So, let’s not tell him, eh?” Graham quietly ushered Roach between the shelves of stored artifacts and back into the room that housed the Satterthwaite Desk. He turned back. “Please come with us, Mr. Harris-Watts.” Turning to Roach once more he said, “There’s glass everywhere. See how some of it has been ground into the wood?”

  Roach knelt and examined the crushed glass. “It’s almost powdered, sir.”

  “So?” Graham posed. “That tells us something more, doesn’t it?”

  Roach thought quickly. “That he collected glass on his clothes on his way through the window?” He looked back in the direction of the intruder’s entry point. “That the intruder was a big lad?” he surmised,

  “A man in all likelihood,” Graham agreed. “And not a slight one. What else do we have?”

  Roach swiped his iPad. “Well, Mr. Harris-Watts here,” Roach looked up to acknowledge the curator, “told me earlier that the CCTV footage is nearly useless, because the victim kept most of the lights off.”

  “Blast,” Graham swore. “They weren’t night-vision cameras?”

  Harris-Watts shook his head. “Too costly,” he explained.

  “What about footage of Nobby’s death?”

  The curator was red-faced now. “The frame rate is so low that… Well, Constable, you’ve seen it…”

  “In one frame, he’s standing up,” Roach explained, “and in the next, he’s on the floor.”

  Graham’s temper frayed. “Bloody hell.” He stopped himself from saying more.

  “I’m sorry, it’s the budget, and…” Harris-Watts appeared to be trembling. He shakily tapped out two more mints into his palm and threw them into his mouth.

  Graham had his hands aloft. “I get it. But that doesn’t mean it’s not frustrating. Corner shops have better security.” Thoroughly chastised, Harris-Watts appeared to be approaching tearfulness. Graham calmed himself and gave the curator a conciliatory look. “Alright. I suppose it can’t be helped now. But make sure you speak to us later. We’ll advise you on appropriate security measures for items of this value in future.”

  “Mr. Harris-Watts also stated that there’s nothing missing from the museum,” Roach reported, looking for a way to move on from the camera-related impasse.

  “Not a thing, as far as I can see,” the curator confirmed. “Perhaps the burglar changed his mind, or ran?”

  DI Graham took a close look at Adam Harris-Watts for a moment. “Nothing whatsoever missing?”

  The curator wriggled under the investigator’s stern gaze. “No,” he frowned awkwardly. “Why?”

  Graham ignored his question. “I wonder if you’d be good enough to account for your whereabouts last night.”

  Harris-Watts gulped and took a step back. Roach watched him carefully. “I was… at home,” Harris-Watts stammered. “You can’t think…”

  “Alone?” Graham asked.

  “Yes,” Harris-Watts said with a shrug.

  “Very well. Captain J. R. D. Forsyth of the Royal Jersey Militia.”

  Harris-Watts stared at Graham again, none the wiser. “What about Captain Forsyth?”

  “A recipient of numerous medals during the First World War, or so your display claims. Among them is the Military Medal, quite a high honor.”

  “Yes,” the curator said. “Captain Forsyth is something of a local hero, celebrated for his bravery during the assault at—”

  “It’s missing.”

  Harris-Watts stared at him before dashing at once to the cabinet, a horrified expression on his face. “But…”

  “Roach? I’ll let you ask the obvious question,” Graham said.

  “Why carry out a risky, dangerous break-in, possibly a murder, enter a room full of valuable, portable objects,” Roach wondered, “and then only steal a single medal from a large collection?”

  “But these are priceless!” Harris-Watts was saying. “They’re irreplaceable historical artifacts!”

  Graham took Roach to one side, “Whatever happened here, whether it was a burglary or something else, it’s certain that our victim died in the middle of it, and probably because of it, one way or another. So, what are our chief questions here, Constable?”

  Roach straightened his back. “Who broke in? And, no matter what was taken, why did they take it?”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  LILLIAN HART SAT in a deep purple armchair in her living room, watching her most important client very carefully. She took a long drag of her unfiltered cigarette, letting the smoke escape languidly from her mouth for a moment before she sucked it back in. Charlotte Hughes had just come to the end of a long and unexpected call, and she looked worryingly pale. “Is everything okay?”

  Charlotte stared at her phone for a moment, and then typed something into it. “Hmm?”

  “Was that important?” Lillian reframed, more honestly this time. She meant to keep tabs on her client. As Charlotte’s Parliamentary campaign manager, Lillian had a strong aversion to Charlotte acting independently. That was how campaigns got out of control or fell behind in their constant battle to remain ahead of the news cycle and the swirling, unpredictable world of social media. It was imperative that Lillian knew everything. Nothing was to be acted upon unless it was run by her first.

  “That was my brother, Eric. Something’s happened on Jersey. A museum’s been broken into,” Charlotte explained. She didn’t look at Lillian as she set aside the
phone.

  “So?” Lillian asked, crossing her legs. “What’s that got to do with the price of beef?”

  “Oh, you know, the Channel Islands. My father’s estate...” Charlotte trailed off. Her brow had knotted up during the call, and she tried to massage it and herself back into a more relaxed, unruffled state.

  Lillian stared at her. “What are you blathering about? Do we need to take any action?” She asked the question in a tone that bluntly conveyed her desire to take exactly none. A plain woman, Lillian attempted to lift her large features by wearing garish make-up, an effort that mostly achieved the opposite of what she intended. Nevertheless, she was respected as an experienced and fearsome campaign manager with connections deep throughout the meandering web of British politics and the wider commerce, media, and national defense interests that supported it. She was not a woman to be trifled with.

  Lillian was utterly focused on one thing and one thing only: getting Charlotte Hughes elected as a Member of Parliament. She had donated eighteen hours of her day, every day, for the last three months, as well as the use of her town house that was acting as campaign headquarters. Whatever this call was about, it seemed entirely unconnected to the matter at hand. It was therefore utterly irrelevant in her mind. Lillian expected Charlotte to put whatever this issue was aside and devote her energies to this evening’s town hall meeting.

  “No, no. Oh, I don’t know. My father’s desk is on display at a museum and—” Charlotte closed her eyes and shook her head.

  Lillian was incredulous. “Desk?” She rolled her eyes. She imagined some cheap, flat-pack affair assembled in half an hour amid much cursing and temper. Charlotte went on to describe the Satterthwaite Desk in great detail, but Lillian was hardly more impressed. “So, it’s been stolen?” She was having a hard time following.

  “Hardly,” Charlotte responded dryly, stung by Lillian’s dismissive tone. “It’s been damaged.”

  Lillian sat up in her armchair. It was a measure of the dehumanizing nature of professional politics that her first thought was to wonder whether this event could in any way harm Charlotte’s bid for political office. She ran through a number of scenarios in her head, but after a few moments, she relaxed. The links were much too tenuous.