Frozen Grave

Chapter 7

Dr Kahn had finished cataloguing Olivia Grantham’s external injuries on the body diagram by the time Carter and Willis got through the traffic and were suited up for the post-mortem.

Kahn greeted them, apologized for having to start without them, then nodded to his assistant, Mark, that he was ready for him to make the first incision. Kahn was a patient man and a lot slower than Dr Harding. He did not spend his time irritably tapping his pen or scalpel whilst waiting for Mark to get a move on. Willis and Carter hovered nearby. Willis was looking over Mark’s shoulder, watching what he was doing, out of interest. Kahn had the kind of demeanour where nothing bothered him. He was semi-retired now and looked forward to being called in to help when needed; it got him out from under his wife’s feet, so everyone was happy.

Mark picked up a scalpel from the tray and leant across the body as he started at the left-inside shoulder and guided the knife with just the right amount of pressure as he cut through the skin and fat. He made another incision from the right shoulder, down to meet his first at the sternum, then he applied more pressure to cut in a straight line down to the pubic bone. He ran the knife over the cut again, in a couple of places where the layer of fat was thicker, and then opened the skin, cutting as he went, as if he were filleting a fish, exposing her breastplate and a mass of wobbly intestines. He stopped with the rib shears in his hand and pulled out an implant from inside the breast.

‘A 34 Double D, I would say – silicone; bad choice. Saline’s so much more natural.’ He turned it over in his hands like a dead jellyfish.

Dr Kahn came forward to clamp off the lower intestine and remove it in one block. He examined the cavity as he cut out her spleen, removed the membrane and held it in his hand.

‘Damaged beyong repair.’ He passed judgement on it before cutting out her liver and making cuts at one-centimetre intervals along it. ‘Bruising – otherwise a healthy-looking liver. But there is bleeding in the peritoneal cavity. She has taken quite a beating.’

Mark snapped through each rib with the shears and lifted out the breastplate whole.

‘Any sign of clots?’ asked Kahn as he came forward to look at the heart and lungs. Mark shook his head. ‘Mind if I take a look?’

Mark loved this side of working with Kahn. He was treated with respect – his opinion mattered a lot more than it did with Harding. But Harding was a genius and if Mark died under suspicious curcumstances, he’d want Harding to find out how and why.

Kahn waited until Mark had finished cutting open Olivia Grantham’s neck and then he watched him pick up the electric saw and carfully cut into the incision around her skull. Kahn opened it with a twist of a small chisel, used like a key to pop out the skull section, and then he cut through the thick white membrane and paused as he leant over to study the brain at eye level.

‘We have already photographed the injury to her skull from the outside.’ He handed the piece of skull to Mark, who began stripping out the membrane. ‘But now we will get a better look at it.’ He was still squatting in front of the exposed brain. He wiped it with his hand.

‘I see damage here that corresponds with the position of the fracture-skull injury. This could have been enough to kill her – we will see when we get the brain out.’

Kahn took a pair of curved scissors from the tray and reached inside, to cut through the optic nerves and prise the brain out of its shell, cutting through the brain stem.

Willis was studying the skull portion with Mark.

‘It’s a crack of four centimetres straight and then a right-angled crush injury at the end of that,’ she said as she took a photograph. Mark drew it on the diagram. Whilst he was doing that, Willis was sketching the dimensions of the wound.

‘It looks like a square-shaped instrument. It’s a tool, a hammer maybe.’

‘Yeah – not sure…’ She was looking at her drawing. ‘It’s left a rim shape, a space in the middle where there is no bruising.’

‘Yes—’ He beamed at Willis – ‘you’re right.’

Kahn coughed. They turned to see him holding the brain in both his hands. ‘Mark… please take this from me.’

As they cleaned up, Carter got a call from Robbo.

‘A group of homeless men have been spotted by a patrol car; the officers haven’t approached but they say a couple look about right for the two we’re looking for. They want to know what you want them to do.’

‘Where are they?’

‘In the area in front of Shadwell Station. Another thing – they’ve spotted Mahmet Balik nearby. He was seen talking to the rough sleepers outside the chemist’s shop earlier on.’

‘Okay. We’re on our way. Tell the patrol to make themselves scarce. I don’t want them to run.’

They finished up fast at the mortuary and drove down to Shadwell. They parked nearby and continued on foot towards the entrance to the station.

‘Guv?’

‘Yeah – I’ve seen them.’ A group of men were sitting against the station wall.

‘Can we have a word?’ Carter said as they approached, and were met with a volley of abuse from the bald man sitting at the end of the group. As he turned away from them, a blue web tattoo was visible on his neck.

‘Oy – big mouth – watch your language,’ Carter said as he got near and pointed to the carrier bag. ‘What’s in there?’

He already knew what was in it. White Ace cider, sold from under the counter of newsagents’ and grocery stores. The group began making moves to leave.

A new man approached from an adjoining street. He had a light collar on his jacket and was carrying a chemist’s carrier bag. Carter saw him at the same time as Willis did and she edged left of the group. The man dropped his bag and bolted through the station and then through the open ticket barrier. They chased after him. As Willis sprinted over the railway bridge, she lost eye contact with the platforms below until she looked down from the top of the stairs to see the man running along the tracks and Carter keeping pace on the platform above.

She flew back down the way she’d come and sprinted along the platform, shouting at people to get back. The oncoming train was so close that she could see the train driver’s panic-stricken expression.

Carter had jumped onto the track and was trying to drag the man to the side, shouting at him to move. Willis was within a few metres of Carter when the man gave up any movement and sank to his knees. Her voice was drowned out by the noise of the train passing. She reached out ready to grab Carter as she turned her face from the whoosh of air, the squeal of metal on metal and the scream of pain.