The Restless Dead

4

A reception committee was waiting by the oyster sheds. As we approached I could see several other people standing on the quayside, in addition to the police officers we’d left there. One of them wore heavy-duty blue coveralls, so I guessed he was the pathologist Lundy had mentioned earlier. Next to him was a tall woman in a pale mackintosh, who I supposed must be DCI Clarke, the senior investigating officer.

I didn’t know who the other two men were. They stood apart from the rest, at the far side of the quay. Both wore dark overcoats, and as the RHIB drew closer I saw the peaked cap that marked one of them as a senior police officer.

‘Oh, lord,’ Lundy muttered, when he saw the people on the quayside.

‘What is it?’ I asked.

The DI had spent most of the trip back from the Barrows at the prow of the boat, mindless of the cold spray dousing him each time the RHIB slapped into a wave. The pitching and bouncing didn’t seem to discomfort him at all. He showed every sign of enjoying himself, facing into the wind like a dog with its head out of the car window.

Now he gave a sigh, as though the brief boat journey had been an interlude all too soon over. He took off his glasses and began wiping the spray from them. ‘That’s Dryden, the Deputy Chief Constable. He’s got Sir Stephen Villiers with him.’

I turned back towards the quayside, beginning to feel apprehensive myself. I’d never heard of a DCC attending a straightforward recovery, let alone the victim’s parent. That was a bad idea, an unnecessary stress for both the relative and the police officers forced to work while they watched.

There was silence except for the marine unit sergeant’s terse instructions as we approached the oyster sheds. The engine dropped to a low chunter and the RHIB slowed, settling in the water. Waves slopped against the tubular hull as momentum carried the boat the last few yards to the quay. The water in the estuary had risen enough to allow us to moor alongside rather than use the slipway. The boat bumped next to a flight of concrete steps that disappeared into the water. Clarke and the others watched in silence as one of the marine unit jumped out and secured the RHIB’s line to a metal stanchion.

‘You next, Dr Hunter,’ Lundy said. ‘We’ll get the stretcher off last.’

Conscious of the solemn figures watching from the quayside, I caught hold of the steps and pulled myself from the unsteady boat, cumbersome in my waders and waterproofs. The steps were slippery and the sodden concrete was tinged green from algae. At the top I paused to wipe the slime from my hands, conscious of how muddy I was as the woman in the cream mac and the man in coveralls came over.

‘Dr Hunter? I’m DCI Pam Clarke. This is Professor Frears, the home office pathologist.’

Clarke was tall and thin, with frizzy ginger hair that blew around her pale face despite being tied back in an attempt to tame it. It was hard to put an age on Frears. The wavy hair was silver but the face below it was sleek and unlined, so that he could have been in his forties or a well-preserved sixty. Together with the flushed cheeks of a bon viveur, it gave him the look of a debauched cherub.

‘I won’t shake hands,’ he said cheerfully, holding up his to display his gloves. He looked thoughtful. ‘Hunter, Hunter. Name’s familiar. Have we met before?’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘Well, it’ll come to me.’

As he turned his attention to the activity on the boat, I glanced across at the two dark-coated men standing at the other end of the quay. They were out of earshot but it still felt uncomfortable having this discussion with the potential victim’s father nearby. Sir Stephen Villiers looked in his sixties. He wore a charcoal overcoat I thought was probably cashmere over a pale-grey suit. The thinning hair that blew across his scalp was grey as well, making him appear colourless as he watched the progress of the stretcher. There was nothing outwardly imposing about him, yet somehow he seemed to radiate far more authority than the senior policeman he was with. Dryden, the Deputy Chief Constable, was lantern-jawed and had the build of a rugby player, with deep-set eyes beneath the shiny peaked cap. He towered over the man next to him, yet it was the smaller man who commanded attention.

Sir Stephen’s face wore no expression as he stared at the body bag on the stretcher. Perhaps feeling my eyes on him, he suddenly looked straight at me. His gaze was incurious, without interest or acknowledgement. A moment later he resumed his study of the stretcher, leaving me with the sense that I’d been assessed and cursorily dismissed.

Lundy had clambered out of the boat and was hauling himself up the steps, puffing from the exertion. The stretcher was lifted out of the boat and carried up after him.

‘Careful,’ Clarke warned as it was hoisted on to the quay. ‘All right, set it down there.’

Grunting with effort, the marine unit lowered the stretcher. Water trickled from it and pooled on the concrete as they stood back. Frears went to stand by it.

‘Right, what do we have here?’ He gestured to the sergeant. ‘Let’s take a quick look, shall we?’

Although Clarke didn’t quite glance over at where Sir Stephen was standing, it was clear what she was thinking. ‘Shouldn’t we get it back to the mortuary?’

The pathologist gave a thin smile. ‘I don’t like working in front of an audience either, but since I’m here I’m going to do my job.’

His tone was affable but carried enough edge to deter any further interference. Clarke gave a curt nod to the marine unit sergeant.

‘Open it up.’

The sickly odour of decomposition rolled across the quay as the bag was opened. The pallid body inside it looked even worse against the black plastic, like a melted waxwork dummy.

‘I suspect matching dental records will be a challenge,’ Frears commented, taking in the shattered remains of the mouth and lower jaw. ‘Stature suggests a male, obviously been in the water for some time. Pull the bag open a little more, will you? There’s a good man.’

The sergeant bent down to do as he was told, then stopped. He peered closer. ‘Hang on, there’s something — Jesus!’

He reared back at a sudden movement inside the exposed gullet. Something coiled in what was left of the mouth, then surged out from it like a silver tongue. Sliding free, the eel dropped into the body bag.

‘Looks like we have a passenger,’ Frears said drily, though I noticed he’d pulled back as well.

‘Sorry,’ the sergeant mumbled. Clarke made an impatient gesture, her face colouring.

‘Don’t just stand there, get rid of it.’

The eel must have been hidden further down the gullet when we’d recovered the body. With his expression showing what he thought of the task, the sergeant reached into the bag next to the body. The creature writhed sinuously, twining round his gloved hand and wrist as he brought it out. He stood there uncertainly, holding it at arm’s length.

‘What shall I do with it, sir?’

‘Well, they’re delicious smoked, but I suggest you throw it back,’ Frears drawled. ‘Unless you’ve any use for it, Dr Hunter?’

I hadn’t. This wasn’t like a land recovery, where information might be gleaned from the creatures infesting the remains. In all likelihood the eel had just colonized a convenient food source, feeding on either the decomposing tissue or the smaller creatures that were drawn to it.

With an expression of distaste, the marine unit sergeant shook the eel off his hand and let it splash back into the water. I tried not to look across at Sir Stephen Villiers as Frears resumed his study of the body. The dead man’s father had obviously insisted on being here, and the presence of the senior police officer with him was a clear signal of his influence. But this wasn’t something a family member should have to see.

‘Well, the entry and exit wounds are fairly self-explanatory,’ Frears went on. ‘Judging from the amount of damage either a large calibre bullet or a shotgun fired from extremely close range.’

‘Shotgun, I think,’ I said. ‘There’s what looks like a wad from a shell embedded at the back of the throat.’

‘So there is.’ Frears peered into the wound. ‘And there’s something else underneath it. Metal… looks like a shotgun pellet.’

That hadn’t been visible earlier: the wad covering it had probably been dislodged by the eel as it wriggled free. ‘Can I take a look?’

‘Be my guest.’

He leaned back so I could see into what had once been the mouth. A glint of something round and shiny was visible, lodged in the mess of cartilage and bone behind the brown cartridge wad.

‘Seems a bit big for a shotgun pellet,’ I commented. ‘And it looks more like steel than lead.’

‘Plenty of people use steel shot these days,’ the pathologist said, clearly not appreciating being contradicted. ‘Could be something like large bore buckshot. I’ll have a better idea when I take it out.’

‘You’d expect a pellet to pass straight through from that sort of range.’

‘Yes, but steel pellets are a lot harder than lead. They’re more prone to ricochet so perhaps this one got bounced around and lodged here. At this stage I don’t really know,’ he said with exaggerated patience. ‘Anyway, moving on to something that’s more your field, Dr Hunter, any thoughts on how long the body’s been in the water? Six weeks seems about the right sort of time given its condition.’

The more your field was said pointedly. Taking the hint, I straightened and considered the soaking wet remains.

‘Hard to say,’ I hedged, trying to decide if I wanted to commit myself at this stage. ‘It’ll have been exposed to air temperatures twice a day at low tide, so it’ll have decomposed faster than if it was submerged all the time. And the hands and feet would have trailed on the bottom, which would help dislodge them.’

Frears raised an eyebrow. ‘True, but there’s adipocere as well. That doesn’t appear overnight.’

‘No, but that’ll have been accelerated by the clothes, especially the coat.’ Not much research had been done into adipocere, but the crumbly deposit formed by the breakdown of subcutaneous fats seemed to build up more quickly when the body was covered. And natural fibres, like the cotton of the duster-style coat, enhanced the effect more than synthetic materials. ‘I’m just not sure six weeks is realistic. Not somewhere as shallow and tidal as this.’

Clarke interrupted. ‘What are you saying?’

‘I think Dr Hunter might have doubts about the length of time the body’s been in the water,’ Frears told her.

That was met by silence. My doubts had been growing since Lundy told me about the two-week gap between when Villiers was last seen and when he was reported missing. Unless he’d somehow avoided all contact with everyone who knew him, then whatever happened probably occurred soon after the vet destroyed his dog. As Lundy had said, that placed the probable time-since-death at six weeks rather than four.

The problem was that I didn’t think these remains could have been in the water that long. If the body had been drifting in this estuary for an additional two weeks it would be in an even worse condition than it already was. Which meant that either Leo Villiers had completely isolated himself for almost a fortnight before he shot himself, which was possible but unlikely…

Or this wasn’t his body.

‘I want facts, not doubts,’ Clarke snapped, keeping her voice pitched low. ‘How soon can we confirm an ID?’

‘Well, I think we can safely rule out any help from dental records or fingerprints,’ Frears said. ‘I’ll do what I can, but we’ll probably have to wait for the DNA results. Although…’

He broke off as footsteps approached on the quayside. I looked around to see Sir Stephen Villiers approaching. Dryden, the Deputy Chief Constable, had come over as well, though he remained a few paces behind the older man and looked as though he’d rather be somewhere else. Clarke stepped towards them, placing herself in front of the stretcher lying on the quay’s concrete floor.

‘Sir Stephen, I don’t think—’

‘I’d like to see my son.’ The man’s voice was dry and inflectionless, yet carried an unshakable authority.

‘I’m sorry, but we don’t know yet if—’

But he was already moving past her. She shot a look of appeal towards Dryden, but the senior police officer’s impassive face made it plain he wasn’t going to intervene. Clarke reddened, her ginger hair and pale complexion a giveaway to her emotional state. Tight-lipped, she said nothing as Sir Stephen stood by the open body bag. For a few seconds, the silence was broken only by the gulls. The wind ruffled the grey man’s hair as he gazed down at what lay on the concrete at his feet.

‘I recognize the coat.’ Sir Stephen sounded as unemotional as he appeared. ‘It’s an old one, from Collier’s on Jermyn Street. My son had an account there.’

Clarke and Lundy exchanged a glance. Frears’ attention was already back on the body. ‘There’s a label,’ he said, carefully lifting the coat to see inside the lining. ‘Collier’s Bespoke Tailors.’

‘The watch is his as well. You’ll find an inscription on the inside. His mother bought it for him before she died.’ Sir Stephen raised his head to stare at Clarke. His expression was cold. ‘I told you all along that my son was dead. Perhaps now you’ll believe me.’

‘Sir Stephen, I—’

‘My son was clearly the victim of a shooting accident. I fail to see what can be gained by protracting an already painful process.’

‘I’m sure DCI Clarke will ensure that a formal identification is given full priority,’ Dryden said, his bluff baritone no more subtle than his words. ‘Isn’t that right, Detective Chief Inspector?’

‘Of course.’ Clarke tried to keep her face neutral, but she didn’t have the colouring for it. ‘Dr Hunter, would you excuse us for a moment?’

I nodded, relieved. There wasn’t anything else I could do until the body was back at the mortuary, and I’d no desire to be part of any dispute with the dead man’s father. Sir Stephen Villiers’ reluctance to accept that his son might have killed himself was understandable, but denial couldn’t alter the facts. And while a close-range shotgun wound to the face could be called many things, ‘accident’ was rarely one of them.

But there was another reason I was glad to get away: I’d got it wrong. Unorthodox or not, Sir Stephen’s recognition of his son’s coat and watch pretty much ended any questions over the body’s identity. So much for my doubts over how long it had been in the water. Perhaps I’d been trying too hard, I thought wearily. Clutching at complications that weren’t there. And I knew now why I’d been asked to go on the recovery in the first place. The marine unit hadn’t needed a forensic anthropologist with them. My presence had been little more than a tick-box exercise, so the dead man’s powerful father couldn’t accuse the police of overlooking anything.

They’d just been covering their backs.

My rubber waders whickered against each other as I left the quayside and walked behind the oyster sheds to where I’d left my car. There were more parked there now, one of them a muscular black Daimler with darkly tinted windows. I doubted the police budget or a pathologist’s wages would stretch to that, so guessed it must belong to Sir Stephen. A man I took to be the driver was leaning against the bonnet, legs crossed at the ankles. He wore a smart but functional suit, close enough in colour to the dark-grey tie to look like a uniform. He’d quickly lowered his hands when I first came around the corner, but now he relaxed. I saw him take in my coveralls and muddy waders as he drew on the cigarette he’d just been about to let drop. Evidently Sir Stephen didn’t like his employees smoking on the job.

‘So is it him or her?’

I looked at him, surprised. ‘I’m sorry?’

Smoke wreathed his head as he regarded me. Except for pockmarking on his cheeks, the legacy of old acne, he had the sort of face it’s hard to recall afterwards. The same could be said for the rest of him. Average height, average build, neatly cut mid-brown hair. From a distance I’d thought he was around forty, but now I saw the signs of aging: a lightening of the hair around the temples and faint lines around the mouth and eyes. Nearer fifty, I thought.

He tapped ash from his cigarette. ‘The body you’ve just brought back. Is it him or the woman?’

By him he’d mean his employer’s son. He’d have to have been blind not to know what we were doing at the quayside, and it wasn’t much of a leap for anyone to guess the body must be either Leo Villiers’ or Emma Derby’s.

But I wasn’t about to fuel any gossip. ‘Sorry, I can’t help you.’

A smile played around his mouth. ‘OK. Just making conversation.’

Paying me no more attention, he drew on his cigarette as he kept watch on the corner of the oyster sheds. I carried on to my own car, my mind returning to the scene on the quayside yet again. But no matter how many times I replayed what had happened, or went over my reasoning about the time-since-death, I didn’t come out of it feeling any better.

Opening the car boot, I perched on its edge as I tugged off the waders and then wrestled out of the heavy coveralls. Despite the cold, I was sweating underneath, more than I should have been. Now the recovery was over, I realized I was aching and feeling more out of sorts than ever. Hoping whatever I was coming down with would at least hold off until later, I towelled myself off and took a drink of cold water from one of the bottles I’d put in the cool-box. The Brie I’d bought to take to Jason and Anja’s was in there as well, and I felt my spirits sink as the sight of it reminded me I still had to drive all the way across country to the Cotswolds.

Focus on the job and stop feeling sorry for yourself. Shivering in the chill air, I put the lid back on the water bottle. As I pulled on my jacket Sir Stephen and Dryden appeared from behind the sheds: whatever discussion Clarke had wanted to have in private was over. There was a brisk handshake, and then both men went to their separate cars. The Daimler’s driver was now ramrod straight, his cigarette nowhere in sight as he went to open the rear door with practised efficiency. Sir Stephen climbed in without giving me a glance. Neither did the driver as he closed the door and then got in himself. The big car started with a low thrum, and then crunched across the broken tarmac to the gates.

By now more police officers were emerging from the quayside. Clarke headed straight for a VW, followed shortly afterwards by Frears. The pathologist had already stripped off his coveralls and looked sleek and well fed in a tailored pinstripe suit and tan brogues. The coveralls had disguised an unexpected plumpness, but he had the confidence and flamboyance to carry it off.

He gave an airy wave as he headed for a BMW that looked as polished as he did. ‘See you at the post-mortem,’ he called.

I raised my hand in return, feeling scruffy and unkempt in comparison. Now the stretcher appeared, carried by two marine unit officers. Lundy was with them, and peeled off to come over as they headed for a windowless black van.

‘Sorry about that. I wasn’t expecting Sir Stephen to be here,’ he said.

‘Everything OK?’

He smiled. ‘I think it was what’s called a frank exchange of views. Meaning he expressed his, and we listened. Didn’t have much choice with the Deputy Chief Constable standing there.’

‘Is he involved with the investigation?’ I asked. A DCC didn’t normally take such a hands-on approach, let alone attend a recovery in person. Dryden hadn’t looked exactly happy about it himself.

‘Not officially. But like I was saying earlier, Sir Stephen’s got a lot of clout and no one wants to ruffle his feathers. Getting the DCC down here’s meant to show how seriously we’re taking this. Keeps us on our toes as well.’

It would do that, all right. ‘What Sir Stephen said about his son’s death being an accident. He can’t still believe that, can he?’

Lundy absently rubbed his stomach with a look of faint discomfort. The DI was evidently having problems, I thought, remembering the antacids. ‘Your guess is as good as mine. His lawyers have come down like a ton of bricks on any suggestion of suicide ever since Leo went missing, but that’s one for the inquest. Let’s get the post-mortem out of the way first. You clear on how to get to the mortuary for the briefing?’

I said I was. Before a post-mortem, the police team would meet with the pathologist, mortuary technicians and any forensic experts such as myself to brief on the case. The mortuary was in Chelmsford, a good hour’s drive, although once I was away from the winding roads around the estuary it should be easy enough to get there.

When Lundy had gone I took a few moments to unwind the kinks from my neck. The feeling that I was coming down with something persisted, and a headache had started to form. Doing my best to ignore it, I put my muddy waders and coveralls into bin bags before cramming them at the back of the boot.

Closing it, I paused to look at the estuary. The returning tide had wrought a dramatic transformation. The barren mudflats had vanished, replaced with a broad stretch of choppy sea. The Barrows were all but hidden, the tips of the highest sandbanks only just breaking the surface, creating oily, flattened patches of water around them. Further out, the three towers of the derelict sea fort stood at the mouth of the estuary on stilt-like legs.

I looked round as an unmarked black funeral company van crunched past, on its way to the mortuary with the body. Following it came the marine unit Land Rover, bouncing over the potholes with the RHIB behind it on its trailer. Quiet settled again once they’d gone. I took a moment to enjoy the estuary’s mud and saline air. Although it wasn’t exactly picturesque, there was still something restful about this landscape. I would have liked to stay longer, but I was the last one there. The parking area was empty except for my car.

It took more of an effort than it should to rouse myself. I got in my car and drove through the open gateway, then pulled up while I shut the gate. There was no way to lock it, but perhaps there was no need. The oyster sheds had none of the broken windows or graffiti-covered walls you’d expect to find nearer a town or city, and I doubted there’d be anything left to steal. It would take a very bored or determined vandal to come all the way out here.

I backtracked the way I came earlier, passing through the same run-down town that if anything looked even more dismal in full daylight. After that, though, it was a different route. Now I was on the edge of what Lundy had called the Backwaters. The road itself wasn’t quite single track, but it wasn’t far off. It meandered and twisted back on itself, forced to follow the dictates of the waterlogged landscape. High hawthorn hedges bordered it on either side, making it difficult to see what was around the bends. I took it steadily, checking Lundy’s directions from time to time to make sure I was still heading the right way. It was hard to tell, but it wasn’t as if there were many other roads to choose from.

Still, as one featureless field or marsh merged into another, I began to worry I’d somehow taken a wrong turn. I reached to switch on the satnav; even if it struggled to find a route, it might at least give me a better idea of where I was.

I tapped my fingers on the steering wheel, waiting for the spinning disc to be replaced by a map.

‘Come on…’ I muttered, reaching to tap the screen. I couldn’t have taken my eyes from the road for more than a split second.

When I looked up again a man was right in front of me.