Linger Awhile

32 Detective Inspector Hunter

31 January 2004. When I saw the body I rang Burke on my mobile. ‘Istvan Fallok’s on his way to you,’ I said. ‘Running on empty.’

‘Fallok!’ said Burke. ‘I’d heard about Cecil Court from Wilbur but I didn’t know who the victim was. He’s still shaking from the bufotoxin snogging and the great big hopping thing.’

‘I’ll be over as soon as I finish with the crime scene,’ I said. ‘Don’t go away.’

‘I’m not going anywhere. Wilbur just went out for a six-pack.’

‘This one’s really hitting you hard, is it.’

‘Definitely worth getting out of bed for. See you.’

When I got to the lab I went through the door marked NO ENTRY — PROTECTIVE CLOTHING MUST BE WORN IN THIS AREA and walked into the post-mortem smell which is partly butcher shop, partly fecal matter, and partly Hycolin disinfectant. Burke and Wilbur in their blue lab gowns, plastic aprons and wellies were standing by a white dissecting table on which lay Istvan Fallok, being considerably more open than when last we spoke, in fact he no longer had any secrets whatever. Except, of course, the identity of his killer.

I joined my colleagues as they went on with their work in the quiet hiss of fresh air coming in from the blower. Wilbur recorded the contents of Fallok’s stomach and weighed it while Burke busied himself with the rib shears and I averted my eyes. ‘Salt beef on rye,’ said Wilbur. ‘This says surprise attack to me; if he’d known it was to be his last nosh he’d have had something better.’

‘I love it when you talk forensic,’ I said, ‘but what about a suspect?’

‘Are you kidding?’ said Wilbur. ‘The DNA from the saliva on Fallok’s neck and jacket is the same as the DNA from the saliva on Walter Dixon’s neck and jacket, and Dixon also got snogged in Cecil Court. And if you take a sample from my neck and jacket you’ll get more of the same from that bufotoxiniferous cutie who stuck her tongue down my throat: Miss Tweedle-O-Twill.’

‘Tweedle-O-Twill?’ I said.

‘That’s a Gene Autry song,’ Burke explained.

‘And she was wearing cowboy boots,’ said Wilbur.

‘Blonde,’ I said, ‘pretty, about five foot six, good figure?’

‘That’s her,’ said Wilbur.

‘Sounds like Justine Trimble,’ I said. ‘When we took a sample of her saliva from Rose Harland’s neck the DNA was the same as Fallok’s. We took samples from Fallok, Lim, Goodman and Justine. The sample just taken from Fallok doesn’t match any of those if my notes are correct.’

‘Right,’ said Burke.

‘So what have we got here?’ I said: ‘Two Justines? What, are they cloning her now?’

‘Vampires move with the times like everyone else,’ said Wilbur. ‘Anyone for a beer?’

‘Are you enjoying this?’ I said to him.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I get tired of the same old thing day after day.’

‘So do I,’ I said, ‘but you get your kicks in this nice clean air-conditioned lab while I wear myself out catching the villains and villainesses.’

‘If you’d had better A Levels you might have got into medical school and then maybe you’d be working in a lab too,’ said Wilbur.

‘Careful,’ I said. ‘The next big hopping thing that comes after you might be me.’

Wilbur got quiet then and concentrated on his work. I think his bufotoxin trip was still fresh in his mind. As for me, I had to tear myself away and go looking for new dots to connect.