Need You Dead

31 Friday 22 April

Dr Frazer Theobald was trying to figure it out. In the grey grimness of the tiled postmortem room at Brighton and Hove City Mortuary, and the sense of studious concentration around the dead woman, Guy Batchelor, who had barely slept all night, was trying to lighten his mood by recalling an observation someone made, years back, in classic police gallows humour, describing the hollowed-out torsos of bodies.

Canoes.

Right now, Lorna Belling’s torso, opened all the way down, her sternum removed, along with all her internal organs, did indeed look, with a small stretch of warped imagination, like a canoe.

Coroner’s Officer Michelle Websdale, the CSI video photographer James Gartrell, as well as Cleo and her assistant, Darren, all stood in attendance, whilst the Home Office pathologist proceeded at his normal pedestrian pace through his examination and dissection of each of her internal organs, pausing frequently to dictate notes into a recorder he kept on a shelf on the far side of the room.

Something else made the DI smirk, more gallows humour. The knowledge that husband and wife were both in Sussex mortuaries right now. Victim and offender. Corin Belling was in one of the fridges in Haywards Heath mortuary. His postmortem would be done by Theobald after he completed this one.

A family affair!

He stepped out of the room, not wanting anyone to see the grin on his face, walked through to the tiny office and switched on the kettle to make himself a cup of coffee. But, actually, after his sombre time in the tiny flat while Theobald carried out his inch-by-inch examination of Lorna’s body, and now this long, slow process, he was starting to feel elated. What a golden opportunity had fallen into his lap. His very first murder as a deputy SIO, and every chance it could be wrapped up in the next twenty-four hours, giving him the kudos, thanks to Roy having to be away.

The fingerprints on the beer cans already put Corin Belling at the scene. The DNA results on the cigarette butts in the flat should be back imminently, and hopefully they would add further confirmation of Belling, a chain-smoker, being there.

He unscrewed the lid of the coffee jar and spooned two heaped teaspoons into the mug, then poured in the milk — something his Swedish wife, Lena, had taught him. It stopped the boiling water from scorching the grounds, and made it taste more like percolated coffee.

Just as he picked up the kettle, his phone rang. It was Roy Grace.

‘Boss!’ he said. ‘How’s it going in Munich?’

‘Just about to go and meet my son,’ he replied. ‘What’s the latest?’

‘Theobald is hard at work, we should be finished sometime before the start of the next ice age.’

‘DNA on those butts back yet?’

‘No, I’m about to chase the lab.’

‘Anything else?’

‘No, boss, we’re good. Just wondering if we need to hold a press briefing, but at the moment it looks such an open-and-shut case I don’t know if there’s any point. Shall I wait until you come back?’

‘Unless there are any unexpected developments, yes.’

‘OK — and — er — boss — I’m sorry for what happened yesterday afternoon — you know — sorry for you — but I really think that Corin Belling running, then giving you a smack in the face, says it all. He’s just a piece of shit — sorry — let me rephrase that — he’s now several pieces of shit!’

Roy Grace laughed. ‘Let’s hope when they start putting him back together they don’t find a bit left over — like I always used to do as a kid putting together model aircraft.’

‘I’ll make sure of it.’

Grace smiled.

‘Good luck today, Roy. Tough call.’

There was a long silence. Then a very distant and faint, ‘Yes.’

Batchelor ended the call and poured the water into his coffee, stirred it and noticed how much his hand was shaking. He hadn’t had any breakfast, he remembered. He’d climbed out of bed feeling totally shattered, made himself a double Nespresso, then showered, shaved, dressed and driven straight here. He removed the lid of the biscuit tin, munched a couple of shortbread biscuits, and then carried his mug through to the postmortem room.

As he entered, he felt a change in the atmosphere. The short and stocky pathologist was staring at him with his beady, nut-brown eyes, the only feature of his face currently visible.

‘Detective Inspector Batchelor,’ he said, holding up a glass vial with an air almost of triumph. ‘I have found something that may be significant.’