The Chemistry of Death

5

I was halfway through the morning surgery when Mackenzie arrived. Janice brought the news along with the next patient's notes. Her eyes were wide with intrigue.

'There's a policeman here to see you. A Chief Inspector Mackenzie.'

For some reason I wasn't surprised. I looked down at the patient's notes. Ann Benchley, an eighty-year-old woman with chronic arthritis. A regular.

'How many more are there to see?' I asked, stalling.

'Another three after this.'

'Tell him I won't be long. And tell Mrs Benchley to come through.'

She looked surprised, but said nothing. By now I doubted there was anyone in the village who didn't know that a body had been found the day before. But so far no-one seemed to have made the connection with Sally Palmer. I wondered how long it would stay that way.

I pretended to study the notes until Janice had gone. I knew Mackenzie wouldn't have come unless it was important, and I doubted any of that morning's patients were urgent cases. I wasn't sure why I was keeping him waiting, other than a deep reluctance to hear whatever he had to say.

I tried not to think what it might be as I saw my next patient. I looked sympathetic as Mrs Benchley displayed her gnarled hands, made the soothing and ultimately useless noises expected of me as I wrote her another prescription, and smiled vaguely as she hobbled out, satisfied. After that, though, I couldn't put it off any longer.

'Send him in,' I told Janice.

'He doesn't look very happy,' she warned me.

No, Mackenzie didn't look very happy. There was an angry flush to his face, and his jaw jutted truculently.

'Good of you to see me, Dr Hunter,' he said, his sarcasm barely concealed. He carried a leather folder. He held it on his lap as he sat down opposite me, uninvited.

'What can I do for you, Inspector?'

'Just a couple of points I'd like to clarify.'

'Have you identified the body?'

'Not yet.'

He took out the packet of mints and popped one in his mouth. I waited. I'd known enough policemen not to be discomforted by the games they played.

'I didn't think places like this were around any more. You know, small, family doctor, home visits, all that sort of thing,' he said, looking around. His eyes settled on the bookshelves. 'Lot of stuff on psychology, I see. That an interest of yours?'

'They're not mine, they're my partner's.'

'Ah. So how many patients do the two of you have?'

I wondered where this was going. 'Five, six hundred altogether, perhaps.'

'As many as that?'

'It's a small village but a big area.'

He nodded, as if this were just a normal conversation. 'Bit different to being a GP in a city.'

'I suppose so.'

'Miss London, do you?'

I knew then what was coming. Again, no real surprise. Just a sense of a weight settling onto my shoulders. 'Perhaps you'd better tell me what you want.'

'I did some research after we spoke yesterday. My being a policeman and all.' He gave me a cool stare. 'You've an impressive CV, Dr Hunter. Not the sort of thing you'd imagine for a village GP.'

Unzipping the folder, he made a show of leafing through the papers in it. 'Took your medical certificate then switched to a PhD in anthropological science. Quite a high-flier, according to this. Followed that with a stint in the States at the University of Tennessee before coming back to the UK as a specialist in forensic anthropology.'

He cocked his head. 'You know, I wasn't even sure what forensic anthropology was, and I've been a policeman for nearly twenty years. I could manage the "forensic" bit, of course. But anthropology? I always thought that was studying old bones. Bit like archaeology. Shows how things can slip by you.'

'I don't like to rush you, but I've got patients waiting.'

'Oh, I won't take any longer than I have to. But while I was on the internet I also found some papers you'd written. Interesting titles.' He picked up a sheet of paper. ' "The Role of Entomology in Time-Since-Death Analysis". "The Chemistry of Human Decomposition".'

He lowered the paper. 'Pretty specialist stuff. So I phoned a friend of mine in London. He's an inspector with the Met. Turned out he'd heard of you. Surprise, surprise, it looks like you've worked as a consultant for various police forces on quite a few murder investigations. England, Scotland, even Northern Ireland. My contact said you were one of the few registered forensic anthropologists in the country. Worked on mass graves in Iraq, Bosnia, the Congo. You name it. According to him you were pretty much the expert when it came to human remains. Not just identifying them, but how long they'd been dead, what they'd died of. He said you picked up where pathologists left off.'

'Is there a point to this?'

'The point is I can't help but wonder why you didn't mention any of this yesterday. When you knew we'd found a body, when you found evidence it could be a local woman, when you knew we would want to identify who it was as soon as bloody possible.' He kept his voice level, though his face had grown redder than ever. 'My friend at the Met thought it was highly amusing. Here am I, the senior investigating officer of a murder inquiry, with one of the country's leading forensic experts in front of me pretending to be a GP'

I didn't let the fact he'd finally called it a murder distract me. 'I am a GP.'

'But that's not all you are, is it? So why the big secret?'

'Because what I used to do doesn't matter. I'm a doctor now.'

Mackenzie was studying me as if trying to decide if I was joking or not. 'I made some other phone calls after that one. I know that you've only been practising as a GP for three years. Packed in forensic anthropology and came out here after your wife and daughter died in a car crash. Drink-driver in the other car survived unhurt.'

I sat very still. Mackenzie had the grace to look uncomfortable. 'I don't want to open old wounds. Perhaps if you'd been straight with me yesterday I wouldn't have had to. But the bottom line is we need your help.'

I knew he wanted me to ask how, but I didn't. He went on anyway.

'The condition of the body's making it difficult to identify. We know it's female, but that's all. And until we've got an ID we're pretty much hamstrung. We can't start a proper murder investigation unless we know for certain who the victim is.'

I found myself speaking. 'You said "for certain". You're already pretty sure, aren't you?'

'We still haven't been able to trace Sally Palmer.'

It was only what I'd been expecting, but it still shook me to hear it confirmed.

'Several people remember seeing her at the pub barbecue, but so far we haven't found anyone who can recall seeing her since,' Mackenzie continued. 'That's nearly a fortnight ago. We've taken DNA samples from the body and the house, but it'll be a week before we get any results.'

'What about fingerprints?'

'Not a chance. We can't say yet if that's down to decomposition or if they've been deliberately removed.'

'Dental records, then.'

He shook his head. 'There aren't enough teeth left to get a match.'

'Someone broke them?'

'You could say that. Could have been done deliberately to prevent us identifying the body, or just a by-product of the injuries. We don't know yet.'

I rubbed my eyes. 'So it's definitely murder?'

'Oh, she was murdered, right enough,' he said, grimly. 'The body's too badly decomposed to know if she was sexually abused as well, but the assumption is that she probably was. And then somebody killed her.'

'How?'

Without answering, he took a large envelope from the folder and dropped it on the desk. The shiny edges of photographs peeped out. My hand was reaching for them before I realized what I was doing.

I pushed the envelope away. 'No thanks.'

'I thought you might want to see for yourself.'

'I've already told you I can't help.'

'Can't or won't?'

I shook my head. 'I'm sorry.'

He regarded me for a moment longer, then abruptly stood up. 'Thank you for your time, Dr Hunter.' His voice was cold.

'You've forgotten this.' I held out the envelope.

'Keep it. You might want to look at them later.'

He went out. I still had the envelope in my hand. All I had to do was slide out the photographs. Instead I opened a drawer and dropped it inside. I closed the drawer and told Janice to send in the next patient.

But the envelope's presence stayed with me for the rest of the morning. I could feel its tug throughout every conversation, each examination. After the last patient had closed the door I tried to distract myself by writing up his notes. Those finished, I went and stared out of the French doors. Two home visits, and then I had the afternoon to myself. If there had been a breath of wind I could have taken the dinghy out on the lake. But as it was I'd only be as becalmed on the water as I felt now, on dry land.

I'd felt curiously numb as Mackenzie had dredged up my past. He might have been talking about someone else. And in a way he was. It was a different David Hunter who had immersed himself in the arcane chemistry of death, seen the end product of countless incidents of violence, accident and nature combined. I'd looked on the skull beneath the skin as a matter of course, priding myself on knowledge that few other people were even aware existed. What happened to the human body when life had left it held little mystery for me. I was intimate with decay in all its forms, could chart its progress depending on the weather, the soil, the time of year. Grim, yes, but necessary. And I took a magician's satisfaction in identifying when, how, who. That these were individuals I was dealing with I never forgot. But only in an abstract sense; I knew these strangers only in death, not in life.

And then the two people I cherished more than anything else in this world had been snatched from me. My wife and daughter, snuffed out in an instant by a drunk who had walked away from the crash unscathed. Kara and Alice, both transformed in a moment from living, vital individuals to dead organic matter. And I knew – I knew – exactly what physical metamorphosis they would be undergoing, almost to the hour. But that failed to answer the single question that had come to obsess me, and to which all my knowledge couldn't even begin to find an answer. Where were they? What had happened to the life that had been within them? How could all that animation, that spirit, simply cease to exist?

I didn't know. And that not knowing was more than I could bear. My colleagues and friends were understanding, but I hardly noticed. I would have gladly plunged myself into my work, except that was a constant reminder of what I'd lost, and the questions I couldn't answer.

And so I ran. Turned my back on everything I'd known, relearned my old medical training and hid away out here, miles from anywhere. Given myself, if not a life, exactly, then a new career. One that dealt with the living rather than the dead, where I could at least try to delay that final transformation, even if I was no closer to understanding it. And it had worked.

Until now.

I went to my desk and opened the drawer. I took out the photographs, keeping them face down. I would look, then give them back to Mackenzie. I still wasn't committing to anything, I rationalized, and turned them over.

I hadn't known how I'd feel, but what I hadn't banked on was the familiarity of it all. Not so much because of what the images showed – God knows that was shocking enough. But the fact of looking at them was like taking a step back in time. Without even realizing it, I began studying them for what they might tell me.

There were six photographs, taken from different angles and viewpoints. I leafed through them quickly, then went back to the start and looked at each one again in more detail. The body was naked and lying face down, arms stretched out above it as though it were in the act of taking a dive into the long stalks of marsh grass. It was impossible to tell its sex from the photographs. The darkened skin hung off the body like badly fitting leather, but that wasn't what caught the eye. Sam had been right. He'd said that the body had wings, and so it had. Two deep cuts had been sliced into the flesh either side of the spine.

Thrust into them, giving the body the look of a fallen, decaying angel, were white swan wings.

Set against the decaying skin, the effect was shockingly obscene. I looked at them for a while longer, then studied the body itself. Maggots spilled like rice from the wounds. Not just the two large ones on the shoulder blades but from numerous smaller gashes on the back, arms and legs. The decomposition was well advanced. Heat and humidity would have accelerated the process, and animals and insects speed it further. But each factor would have its own story to tell, each one helping to provide a timetable of how long it had lain there.

The last three photographs were of the body after it had been turned over. There were the same small cuts on the body and limbs, and the face was a shapeless mess of splintered bone. Below it the exposed cartilage of the throat, harder and slower to decompose than the softer tissue that had covered it, gaped wide where it had been slashed open. I thought about Bess, Sally's Border collie. The dog's throat had also been cut. I went through the photographs one more time. When I found myself looking for anything recognizable about the body, I put the photographs down. I was still sitting there when a rap sounded on the door.

It was Henry. 'Janice told me the police had been. Locals been buggering the livestock again?'

'It was just about yesterday.'

'Ah.' He sobered. 'Any problem?'

'Not really.'

Which wasn't really the truth. I felt uncomfortable keeping anything from Henry, but I hadn't gone into all the details about my background. While he knew I'd been an anthropologist, it was a broad enough field to cover any number of sins. The forensic aspect of my work, and my involvement in police investigations, I'd kept to myself. It hadn't been something I'd wanted to talk about.

It still wasn't.

His eyes went to the photographs lying on the desk. He was too far away to make out any detail, but I felt as though I'd been caught out, all the same. He raised his eyebrows as I put them back in the envelope.

'Can we talk about it later?' I said.

'Of course. I didn't mean to pry.'

'You weren't. It's just… there are a few things I need to think about right now.'

'Are you OK? You seem a little… preoccupied.'

'No, I'm fine.'

He nodded, but the look of concern didn't fade. 'How about taking the dinghy out some time? Bit of exercise will do us both good.'

Although he needed help getting in and out of the boat, Henry's disability didn't prevent him from rowing or sailing once he was on board. 'You're on. But give me a few days.'

I could tell he wanted to ask more, but thought better of it. He wheeled himself back to the door. 'Just say the word. You know where I am.'

When he'd gone I sat back in the chair and closed my eyes. I didn't want this. But then, nobody did. Least of all the dead woman. I thought about the pictures I'd just seen, and realized that, like her, I didn't have a choice.

Mackenzie had left his card with the photographs. But I couldn't reach him on either his office number or mobile. I left messages to call me on both and hung up. I couldn't say I felt better for reaching a decision, but some of the weight seemed to lift from me.

After that, there were the morning's visits to do. Only two, and neither was serious; a child with mumps, and a bedridden elderly man who was refusing to eat. By the time I'd finished it was lunchtime. I was on my way back, debating whether to go home or to the pub, when my phone rang.

I grabbed it, but it was only Janice to tell me that the school had called. They were worried about Sam Yates, and could I go to see him? I said I would. I was glad to do something constructive while I waited for Mackenzie to call.

Back in Manham, the presence of police officers on the streets was a sobering reminder of what had happened. Their uniforms were a stark contrast to the gaiety of the flowers brightening the churchyard and green, and there was a sense of muted but unmistakable excitement about the village. But the school, at least, seemed normal. Although the older children had to travel five miles to the nearest comprehensive, Manham still had its own small primary school. A former chapel, its playground was colour-fully noisy in the bright sunshine. This was the last week of term before the long summer holiday, and the knowledge seemed to give an extra edge to the usual lunchtime hysteria. A little girl bounced off my legs as she dodged another who was chasing her. Giggling, they ran off, so preoccupied in their game that they barely noticed my presence.

I felt the familiar hollowness as I went into the school office. Betty, the secretary, gave me a bright smile as I knocked on the open door.

'Hello, there. You here to see Sam?'

She was a tiny, warm-faced woman who'd lived in the village all her life. Never married, she lived with her brother and treated the schoolchildren as her extended family.

'How is he?' I asked. She wrinkled her nose.

'Bit upset. He's next door in the sick bay. Just go straight in.'

'Sick bay' was a rather grand title for what was in effect a small room with a sink, a couch and a first-aid cabinet. Sam was sitting on the couch, head down and feet dangling. He looked peaky and close to tears.

A young woman was sitting next to him, talking in soothing tones as she showed him a book. She broke off, looking relieved when I walked in.

'Hi, I'm Dr Hunter,' I said to her, then gave the boy a smile. 'How you doing, Sam?'

'He's a bit tired,' the young woman answered for him. 'Apparently he had bad dreams last night. Didn't you, Sam?'

She sounded matter-of-fact, calm without seeming condescending. I guessed she was his teacher, but I hadn't seen her before and her accent was too slight for her to be local. Sam had dropped his chin onto his chest. I squatted down so I was on his eye level.

'That right, Sam? What sort of nightmares?' After seeing the photographs, I could guess. He kept his head down, saying nothing. 'OK, let's take a look at you.'

I didn't expect there to be anything physically wrong with him, and there wasn't. Temperature a little high, perhaps, but that was all. I ruffled his hair as I stood up.

'Strong as an ox. Will you be OK while I have a word with your teacher?'

'No!' he said, panicked.

She gave him a reassuring smile. 'It's all right, we'll be right outside. I'll even leave the door open, and then I'll come right back.