The Scent of Death

Chapter 9

The weather broke during the night. Rain pitched down from a gunmetal sky as I drove to the mortuary next morning, bouncing off the pavements and dashing the autumn leaves from the trees. I found a parking place nearby and ran through the downpour, pausing under the covered entrance to shake off my wet coat.

The mortuary was relatively new, a custom-built building that served most of this part of North London. I’d worked there in the past, though not for some time. Parekh was there already, and greeted me with her customary dryness.

‘You were a long time coming back yesterday afternoon,’ she commented, a mischievous twinkle in her eye.

I hadn’t seen her since the day before: when I’d come away from the sealed chamber at St Jude’s I thought I’d be returning soon.

‘There was a change of plan.’

‘So I gather.’

I hadn’t wanted to broach it myself, but I couldn’t pretend I wasn’t curious. ‘How did the recovery go?’

‘Slowly. There was a delay while more of the ceiling was shored up, so only one body was recovered. The other should be removed later today.’

‘And what about BioGen?’

‘Our new private service provider?’ She gave a shrug. ‘They have very nice grey outfits. Other than that, I had little to do with most of them. Although I found your replacement something of a surprise.’

Tell me about it. ‘Why’s that?’

‘I’ve never worked with anyone calling themselves a forensic taphonomist before. I have to say, if he hadn’t told me I would have thought he was just another forensic anthropologist. Grey overalls aside, obviously.’

I tried not to smile. ‘Apparently, he comes highly recommended.’

‘I’m sure he does. He seems capable enough. Young but very methodical. And certainly not lacking in self-confidence.’

That was one way of putting it. But then he wouldn’t have regarded a forensic pathologist like Parekh as a rival. Not if he’d any sense.

She smiled at me, her face cross-hatching with fine wrinkles. ‘Stings, doesn’t it?’

‘What does?’

‘Finding the next generation snapping at your heels.’

I started to protest, then gave it up. She’d known me too long. ‘Was I that arrogant when you first met me?’

‘Not arrogant, no. Confident, yes. And ambitious. But you’ve seen a lot more of life since then. I daresay Daniel Mears will improve once he’s had his own rough edges knocked off. And I’ve no doubt he will.’

I thought that was likely, too, but I didn’t really care. I’d already decided that the less I had to do with Mears, the better we’d both like it.

The SIO’s post-mortem briefing was scheduled for ten o’clock. Whelan and the other team members who were attending began to arrive fifteen minutes before the start, but Ward herself was late. She was the last there, shucking out of her wet coat as she bustled into the briefing room.

‘Sorry, sorry,’ she sighed, dumping her shoulder bag on the table before taking her seat.

She looked frazzled and tired, her swollen stomach more obvious in the charcoal jacket and grey dress-skirt than when she’d been wearing coveralls. The briefing itself was routine, essentially just making sure the pathologist and SIO were on the same wavelength before the post-mortem started. The police were still no closer to establishing the dead woman’s identity. She hadn’t been carrying a driver’s licence or any other form of ID, and her clothing and shoes were cheap, mass-produced brands that told us nothing. No useable fingerprints had survived on the torn and rat-gnawed skin of her hands, and while the victim’s pregnancy might help when it came to sifting through the missing-persons database, we would need a better idea of how old she was to refine the search criteria. Her pregnancy narrowed it down a little, but not enough. Child-bearing age could mean anything from a juvenile to someone in her forties.

That meant the main hope for identification now lay with dental records and whatever Parekh or myself could turn up. While Ward, Whelan and other members of the Murder Investigation Team filed into the observation booth, the two of us changed into scrubs and went into the examination room.

Mortuaries are the same the world over. Some may be more modern and better equipped than others, but the basic design doesn’t vary. And the chilled air and smell of disinfectant that overlies the other, more biological odours remains constant.

The door shut behind us, enveloping us in a cool quiet. The woman’s body lay on an examination table. Her knees were drawn up and bent off to one side, while arms the colour and texture of pemmican were folded in the traditional funeral pose across her lower chest. The decay was even more obvious against the table’s stainless-steel surface. Her clothing had been removed, sent off to the lab along with tissue samples for analysis and testing, and the remains had been rinsed down. Most of the loosened hair had washed away to be collected separately, leaving a few lank strands lying forlornly on the scalp. Waiting nearby were the surviving bones of the foetus.

‘What a sad job we do sometimes,’ Parekh murmured, looking down at the two sets of remains. Mother’s and child’s. Then, with a shake of her head, she set to work.

The post-mortem itself was her domain, so apart from assisting I stayed in the background. It didn’t take very long. With the remains in such poor condition there wasn’t much a forensic pathologist could do. There was no obvious trauma, such as a fractured skull or broken hyoid, which would have pointed to a probable cause of death. Like me, Parekh thought it was possible that the young woman’s waters had broken, which in those conditions could eventually have proved fatal, especially if she’d sustained some other injury as well. But with her body so badly degraded, that was only speculation.

The mummification also ruled out any chance of establishing how long ago the woman had died. I saw nothing to make me change my original estimate, that her body had been in the loft for at least one full summer and probably longer. Like so much else about this, however, that was little more than an educated guess.

Even so, one or two things did emerge.

‘I don’t think her hands and arms were arranged like that,’ Parekh said, studying the remains over her mask.

‘I don’t think so either,’ I agreed. ‘Not at the same time as the body was moved, anyway.’

It was possible that someone had arranged them soon after she’d died, either just before or just after rigor mortis when the body was still pliant. Except that didn’t fit with the theory that the young woman had been shut in the loft and left to die.

One thing I could say with certainty was that her arms hadn’t been posed when her remains had been wrapped in the plastic sheet and moved. Her body would have already mummified by then, the dried-out skin and soft tissues locked in the posture in which she’d died. As brittle as they were, any attempt to reposition them would have caused obvious damage.

There was none I could see, which meant the apparently deliberate arrangement of her arms had another explanation.

‘She was hugging herself,’ Parekh said. ‘The way her knees are drawn up and twisted to one side, it’s almost a foetal position.’

I’d reached the same conclusion. Exhausted after God alone knew how long in the dark loft, the young woman had curled up, covered her pregnant stomach with her arms and waited to die. And as her body had dried out the whipcord tendons had contracted, drawing her arms higher up her chest.

The pose wasn’t one of respect. Just a happenstance of nature.

The only discernible trauma was to the right shoulder. I’d noticed in the crime-scene photographs that its position didn’t look normal, and when I examined the post-mortem X-rays I saw why. It had been dislocated.

‘Perimortem, do you think?’ Parekh mused, looking at the ghostly black-and-white image. ‘It could have been caused by a fall or during a struggle. Perhaps as she tried to escape, assuming that’s what happened.’

I nodded. Although we were into the realms of speculation now, I knew from painful experience how agonizing a dislocated shoulder was. It wasn’t something that anyone would endure without treatment, at least not willingly. But there was nothing to suggest the woman had been restrained, such as the abrasions we’d found on the other two victims. And a post-mortem injury when the body was moved would have damaged the mummified tissues around the joint, possibly even caused the limb to completely detach.

That made a perimortem injury — at or close to the time of death — most likely. It also added weight to the theory that she’d gone into the loft to hide. A pregnant woman with a dislocated shoulder wouldn’t have been able to run very far, or very fast. If she’d been trying to escape from someone, the loft might have been her only option.

As well as her last.

Parekh moved aside to let me take a look at the dead woman’s teeth. A forensic dentist would be able to give a more exhaustive analysis, but I could provide an initial assessment. Carefully shining a pencil light in, I peered into the gaping mouth. The tongue and lips had gone and only shrivelled scraps of gums remained.

‘Two of her wisdom teeth have erupted, but the upper two haven’t fully broken through,’ I said. ‘So she’s late teens at least, but probably not much older than her mid-twenties.’

Wisdom teeth usually emerge between the ages of seventeen and twenty-five, so while the woman — the young woman, I could now say — had been old enough for the process to start, the fact it was still ongoing put an upper limit on her age range. That was supported by the relative lack of wear shown by her teeth, which suggested a younger person. But their condition was revealing for another reason as well.

‘She doesn’t have many fillings, but there’s a lot of discolouration and a few visible patches of caries,’ I told Ward, when we were back in the briefing room after the post-mortem. ‘She hasn’t visited a dentist recently.’

‘Consistent with drug use?’ she asked.

‘I’d say so, yes.’

Whelan had been listening while he was on the phone. He put it away now as he joined the conversation. ‘If she was buying or selling drugs that’d explain what she was doing at St Jude’s. We know some dealing went on there, and dental hygiene isn’t high on an addict’s list of priorities.’

‘Perhaps not, but her teeth used to be well looked after,’ I said. ‘I think the decay and staining are relatively recent. None of her fillings looks particularly new, so if she’s only in her twenties they were probably done when she was a child or in her early teens. And two of her back molars have white fillings rather than silver amalgam. The NHS only pays for those on front teeth.’

‘So she had private dental work when she was younger. That doesn’t sound like someone from a deprived background.’ Ward nodded to herself. ‘OK, that tells us a bit more about her. Early to mid-twenties, six to seven months pregnant with a likely history of substance abuse. If she went to St Jude’s she was potentially still using, but she could be from a family who could afford to pay for white fillings.’

‘Nice girl gone bad,’ Whelan said. ‘Very bad, if she was looking for drugs when she was pregnant.’

I saw Ward give him an annoyed glance, folding her arms across her stomach in an unconsciously protective gesture. It wasn’t hard to guess her thoughts: the dead woman’s pregnancy had been at a similar stage to hers. I’d been able to confirm my original estimate from measurements of the foetal skeleton. The foetus was between twenty-five and thirty weeks old, meaning its mother had been in either the later stages of her second trimester, or possibly the start of her third.

But, despite my best efforts, that was all I could say. X-rays had revealed hairline fractures on the tiny radius on the right forearm and ulna on the left, but in all likelihood the damage was post-mortem, caused either when the mother was moved or by scavengers. I’d take a closer look once the minuscule skeleton had been cleaned, but I didn’t expect to learn very much. Sex characteristics only developed after puberty, so there would be no way of even knowing if the unborn child was a boy or girl.

It was a sad job sometimes, as Parekh had said.

After Ward and Whelan had gone, and Parekh had returned to St Jude’s to supervise the recovery of the remaining body, I was left on my own for the next grisly stage. X-rays can only reveal so much. I needed to examine the unknown young woman’s bones in greater detail, a task more related to butchery than to science. First, as much of the remaining soft tissue as possible would have to be removed using shears and scalpels. Then the skeleton itself would have to be systematically disarticulated, by cutting through the connective cartilage and tendons at the joints. Skull from spine, arms from torso, legs from pelvis: all had to be carefully separated one from the other. Then, once the body had been reduced to its component parts, any residual soft tissue had to be removed by macerating the bones in warm water and detergent.

It was a laborious process, but at least this time the task would be a little easier. The condition of the remains meant there wasn’t much soft tissue left to remove.

Especially on the second, tiny skeleton.

I’d turned down the mortuary assistant’s offer of help. I was accustomed to doing this alone, and by then the melancholy nature of what I had to do was starting to weigh on me. I was better left to my own thoughts, and my own company.

It was several hours before I’d done. I left the adult bones to simmer gently overnight: by morning they’d be clean enough to rinse and then reassemble for examination. The more delicate foetal skeleton I put to soak in plain water at room temperature. It would take longer, but there was precious little tissue left on its bones, and I didn’t want to risk damaging them.

Once I’d cleared everything away, there was nothing more I could do. I checked my watch and felt a heaviness when I saw how early it was. I’d no plans, and the prospect of an empty evening alone at the apartment held little appeal.

It wasn’t raining when I left the mortuary, but it started again as I walked back to my car. Fat, heavy drops began to spatter on the pavement, and within seconds it was coming down in earnest. I ran the rest of the way, ducking into my car as the heavens opened. Rain drummed on the roof as I brushed water from my face, obscuring everything outside the smeared glass of the windows. It was too heavy for the wipers to cope with, so I sat back to wait it out.

I was in no rush.

I switched on the radio while I waited. I caught the end of the six o’clock news, the segments that weren’t quite important enough to make the opening headlines. The rain drowned it out at first, but when I heard St Jude’s mentioned I turned up the volume. A local historian was being interviewed, trying hard not to sound too excited.

‘Of course, tragic as the, er, current events are, this is far from the first misfortune to strike St Jude’s,’ he said. ‘Several of the nuns who worked in what was then an isolation wing died during a typhoid outbreak in 1870, the very same year an unknown number of patients were also killed in a fire. Then in 1918 almost a quarter of the hospital staff, ah, succumbed to the Spanish flu outbreak. And during the Second World War a bomb fell on the east wing. Luckily, it didn’t explode, but it brought down a section of roof that killed a nurse. The story goes that she’s the Grey Lady.’

‘Grey Lady?’ the interviewer prompted on cue.

‘The hospital ghost.’ The historian couldn’t keep the smile from his voice. ‘Reportedly seen by patients and staff throughout the years, although actual eyewitness accounts are hard to find. Supposedly a harbinger of death, if you believe the legend.’

Oh, for God’s sake. I shook my head, irritated.

‘So it’s fair to say the hospital is cursed?’ the interviewer asked.

‘Well, I wouldn’t necessarily go that far. But it’s certainly had its share of bad luck. Which is ironic given that St Jude is the Patron Saint of lost causes, one of the original apostles who—’

I turned off the radio. It was a filler piece, making up for the fact that the police had released so few details about the deaths at the old hospital. But that sort of sensationalism wouldn’t help the investigation.

Still, it had reminded me of something. Reaching for the glove compartment, I took out the leaflet for the public meeting the protester had given me the day before. Below the old photograph of St Jude’s were details of when and where it was going to be held. I looked at my watch. I could just about make it.

It wasn’t as if I’d anything else to do.

The rain had eased by the time I reached St Jude’s, but the downpour had cleared the streets. There was no sign of the media scrum that had congregated outside the gates the day before. The entrance was now guarded by a single police officer, his yellow waterproofs shockingly bright in the gloom, while only a few diehard journalists remained. Most were dressed for the weather or huddled under golfing umbrellas, although one bedraggled woman who’d been caught out stood dripping and forlorn under a tree.

I drove on past the derelict hospital. The public meeting was being held in a church hall not far away. It didn’t start for another twenty minutes and I’d thought I’d be able to find it easily enough. But as I turned down yet another street of demolished houses and boarded-up shops, I was regretting not using the satnav. Taking what I hoped was the right turning, I found myself back on the main road that ran behind the abandoned hospital’s grounds. A solitary figure plodded along the deserted street. It was a woman, laden with carrier bags as she trudged through the downpour. She wore a heavy coat but no hood and walked with a slightly awkward gait, favouring her left side. Something about her seemed familiar but I’d gone past before I realized it was the woman I’d encountered at the ruined church the day before.

Remembering her final ‘Piss off’, I almost carried on, but then the decision was made for me. As I glanced back in the mirror I saw the bus behind me splash through a puddle at the pavement’s edge. The old woman was almost obscured by the sheet of dirty water it threw up, tottering sideways as it soaked her.

Cantankerous or not, I couldn’t leave her like that. I pulled over, earning an irate flash of the bus’s lights. It was possible its driver didn’t know what he’d done, but I couldn’t drive away now. The woman was standing where she’d been splashed, mouthing something at the disappearing bus. Then, hoisting her dripping bags, she set off walking again with slump-shouldered resignation.

I wound down the window as she drew level with my car. ‘Do you want a lift?’

She looked round. Her grey hair was plastered to her head, and water dripped from her eyebrows and the tip of her nose as she scrutinized me.

‘Who are you?’

‘I saw you in the woods yesterday.’ She didn’t say anything, just regarded me with sullen hostility. I tried again. ‘By the ruined church, at the back of St—’

‘I remember, I’m not stupid.’

She still didn’t move. Rain was blowing in the open car window, drenching me as well. ‘Where do you live?’

‘Why?’

‘If it’s not far I can give you a lift.’ I hoped it was nearby: the meeting was due to start soon.

She scowled. ‘I don’t need charity.’

A gust of wind blew more rain into the car. I wiped it from my face. ‘Look, it’s a filthy night. I can drive you home if you like, but if you’d rather walk that’s fine.’

She gave the car a doubtful look before she grudgingly answered, ‘All right.’

I reached into the back and opened the car door. She dumped her wet carrier bags on to the seat, then climbed in after them with a grunt.

‘So where am I going to?’ I asked.

The face in the rear-view mirror stared back at me suspiciously. There was another pause.

‘Cromwell Street. Take the next left.’

I checked the clock on the dashboard as I pulled out: I was cutting it fine if I was going to make the start of the meeting. The car smelled of wet wool and old fabric, and a sour odour that said my passenger didn’t bathe very often.

‘I’m David,’ I said, taking the turning.

‘Good for you. You want the next right. No, that one, are you blind? You’ve missed it now!’

The road was already disappearing behind us. ‘It’s OK, I’ll turn around.’

She sniffed. ‘Don’t bother, you can take the next one instead. They all go to the same place.’

Now she tells me. I tried again. ‘It’s bad weather to be out in.’

‘Not like I’ve any choice when I need shopping, is it?’

‘Aren’t there any shops nearby?’

‘You think I’d be out in this if there were?’

I gave up trying to make conversation. We drove in silence for a while.

‘Lola,’ she said abruptly.

‘Sorry?’

‘That’s my name. Lola.’

The hostility in her voice had been replaced with tiredness. I glanced in the mirror and saw her staring listlessly out of the window, the pouchy face loose and sullen.

She didn’t look like a Lola.

Her street was a few hundred yards from the woods where I’d first seen her. Rows of pebble-dashed terraces ran on both sides of the road. A few had lights on but most looked empty, while some had been demolished altogether.

‘Here.’

I pulled up outside the house she’d indicated. The pebble-dashing was unpainted and starting to spall and the window frames were badly in need of paint. Only the front door looked new, a sturdy slab of panelled wood, glossy with varnish.

Capricious as ever, the rain had all but stopped as I got out of the car. She’d already opened the door and was struggling to climb out herself.

‘Here, let me,’ I said, reaching for her carrier bags.

‘I’ve got them,’ she said brusquely.

I stood back while she heaved herself out. Awkwardly clutching her shopping, she rummaged in her handbag as she went to the front door. But instead of unlocking it she stopped, keys held ready as she fixed me with a stare.

‘If you’re expecting me to pay you, you can think again.’

‘Don’t worry, I was just seeing if you can manage,’ I told her.

‘Well, I can.’

It looked like I’d already outstayed my welcome. ‘OK, then. Take care.’

She didn’t respond. Turning back to my car, I checked my watch, swearing to myself when I saw the time. I briefly considered asking Lola — her name still didn’t seem to fit — for directions to the church hall, but immediately decided it wouldn’t be worth the aggravation. I’d find the place myself.

From behind me I could hear the snick of a lock as she opened her front door. Suddenly, there was an exclamation, followed by an explosive smash of breaking glass. I looked back to see that one of her carrier bags had burst, spilling jars, tin cans and packages onto the ground. The top had come off a container of milk, and bacon, sausages and broken eggs lay in a spreading white pool on the wet pavement.

I put my foot out to stop a tin of baked beans from rolling into the gutter, then started picking up the other groceries that had come to rest nearby. Still standing in front of the doorway, Lola stared down at the ruined food spread around her feet, as though unwilling to believe what she saw.

‘Shall I bring these in?’ I asked, going over with the tins and packages I’d retrieved.

Her expression clouded. ‘I told you, I don’t want any help.’

She turned to thrust her remaining carrier bags inside, then began grabbing the items I was holding. The front door behind her stood ajar, and from inside the house came a low moan. I saw Lola’s mouth tighten, but it wasn’t until the moan was repeated, more loudly this time, that she responded.

‘Give me a chance, I heard you the first time!’ she snapped over her shoulder.

The noise had come from a person, not a pet, I was certain of that. I looked through the open doorway, trying to see inside. The house was in darkness, but now I saw that a bulky parcel had spilled from one of the carrier bags she’d put down. It was a pack of adult incontinence pads.

‘Is everything OK?’ I asked.

She gave me a look as though the question were too ridiculous to answer. ‘What do you care?’

I sighed, giving up any hope of making it on time to the meeting. ‘Look, why don’t I clean this up while you put your shopping away?’

I don’t know if she was tempted or just surprised. She stared at me as though unable to decide what she was seeing. Then she snatched the last tin from my hand.

‘Leave us alone.’

The front door slammed in my face.