One of Us Is Dead

102 Wednesday 26 October 2022

The naked body was bloated and most of the skin was a hideous, mottled greenish black. Some of the extremities, including the tip of his nose, part of his lips and one eye had been nibbled away by fish and crustaceans. His head and three remaining limbs were at odd angles and the parts of his face that were still intact looked distorted.

Grace and Branson, gowned up and masked, stood well back from the post-mortem table, well back from the horrific smell. The attending coroner’s officer was doing the same, although the CSI photographer, James Gartrell, seemed oblivious to it.

When a human body decomposes, methane, hydrogen sulphide and carbon dioxide build up within the body cavity. They make it increasingly buoyant so that eventually, anywhere from two to seven days after sinking to the seabed, the body will float to the surface and remain there for up to a week.

There was something ironic about Rufus Rorke’s floating corpse being found by a fishing boat, Grace thought. Almost déjà vu. It had been caught yesterday in a trawl net, ten miles off the coast. A strong sou’westerly wind over the past few days had probably speeded up its passage.

‘I don’t think he’s faking it this time,’ Branson murmured.

‘If he is, he deserves an Oscar,’ Grace retorted, drily.

They’d watched Rorke’s skull cap being sliced open at the base of his head, then peeled forward exposing his skull, which was a mosaic of cracks and was hanging over his face. His left leg was missing. There was a white plastic ID band around his left wrist and a white tag, labelled Brighton & Hove City Mortuary Service, tied to his right big toe with a piece of string. Under Name or Description was written Rufus Rorke. Under Where Removed From was written English Channel.

Grace looked at Rorke’s bloated, partially eviscerated body. Luke Stanstead had helpfully provided him with the calculation that falling from an aircraft at 11,000 feet, it would have taken Rorke approximately sixty-six seconds to hit the water. What was going through your mind in those sixty-six seconds, Rufus Rorke? Was it sixty-six seconds of utter stark terror? Or did you figure out you’d score 10 for a perfect dive and then swim to the shore and fool everyone yet again that you were dead?

He doubted Rorke had spent it in prayer.

Branson moved closer to Grace. ‘Sure this isn’t another of Rorke’s elaborate disguises?’

‘I wouldn’t put it past him.’ Behind his mask, Grace was grinning.

Nadiuska, at the cutting table, was slicing through his liver, assisted by Cleo’s deputy, Darren Wallace, who was standing by with a plastic water jug, sluicing away the excess blood at regular intervals. Without looking up she said, ‘The liver has been ruptured — this is consistent with the blunt force trauma of striking the sea at terminal velocity. The density of water doesn’t allow it to be moved out of the way quickly — so at this speed it’s as hard as a tarmac road. You can see the multiple fractures to his skull, and I’m pretty sure his spine is broken too, along with every bone in his body — the ones that are still attached.’

‘So it’s fair to say he’s not going to be doing a runner any time soon,’ Branson remarked.

‘Well, if he does,’ Darren quipped, ‘we’ll call him Houdini.’