The Scent of Death

Chapter 12

I drove past St Jude’s after I left Lola’s. It wasn’t far, and I wanted to see what impact Oduya’s leak had made. The previous evening there had been hardly any journalists outside, and it wouldn’t have been the rain that kept them away. With no further developments to sustain it, media interest had begun to die down.

But Oduya had changed all that. The gates outside St Jude’s were once again surrounded by press vans and journalists. Not as many as when the victims’ bodies had first been found, but enough to show interest in the story had taken a definite upswing. Some of them had spilled on to the road, forcing me to slow as I drove by. It was as well I did. Coming from the opposite direction, a young man in a hooded sweatshirt was walking on the pavement towards them. He’d turned his head to stare, obviously more interested in the TV cameras than where he was going, and in one of those half-intuited moments I knew what was going to happen.

I’d already started to brake when he stepped off the kerb. Even so, it was a close thing. He was right in front of me, and if I hadn’t already slowed I would have hit him. As it was, I was rocked against the seatbelt, my flight case thudding over in the boot as the car came to a sudden halt. The youth stood frozen in the road, his hooded face washed with shock as he stared at the car that had suddenly appeared. Then his expression changed.

‘Watch where you’re fucking going, prick!’

He seemed about to launch a kick at my car before remembering the police across the road. Giving them a furtive glance, he put his head down and hurried off.

The near-miss had shaken me as well. My heart was bumping as I moved into gear and pulled away. The commotion had drawn the attention of the nearest journalists. Conscious of their stares, I didn’t look back as I drove down the road.

I didn’t want to give them any more headlines.

As St Jude’s disappeared in the rear-view mirror, I thought over what had happened back at Lola’s. Her neighbour had clearly enjoyed spreading the rumour that she’d been sacked after a child in her care had died, but it was quickly apparent that she didn’t know any more than that. If there was even anything to know: I’d once been a victim of malicious gossip myself and knew how easily it can stick, regardless of whether it was true or not.

Yet Lola had told me she used to be a nurse. And just because I didn’t like the way some people revelled in spreading slander, it didn’t mean there couldn’t be a kernel of truth in it sometimes.

It was an unlooked-for complication, especially after seeing the squalid conditions Lola and her son were existing in. It was clear she was struggling to look after him on her own and, while I didn’t want to interfere, her wish for independence had to be balanced against his welfare. I might not be a doctor any more, but now I’d seen how Lola and her son were living I couldn’t pretend I hadn’t.

The question was, what to do about it?

It was a relief to step inside the cool, clinical quiet of the mortuary. Here at least I had some control over what was going on. I signed in and changed into scrubs, switching my phone to silent before putting it into an inside pocket. If I was carrying out particularly demanding work I would often leave my phone in the locker. But today’s task should be relatively routine, and I didn’t want to be out of touch.

I knew Ward would be trying to get hold of me.

I checked on the delicate foetal bones first. Even though there had been precious little soft tissue remaining, it would take several days of soaking in plain water for the last of it to dissolve and fall away. But examining them was only a formality. There was nothing to indicate that the mother had been stabbed or suffered some other physical trauma that could have left its mark on the tiny bones. Inside the womb, her unborn infant would have been protected from whatever final moments its mother had endured.

At least until she’d died.

Changing the water the bones were soaking in each day was as much as I could do to speed the process along. I did that now, then turned my attention to the mother. The overnight maceration, simmering gently in a weak detergent solution, had effectively removed tissue and grease from her disarticulated bones. Pulling on a pair of elbow-length rubber gloves, I set about the next stage.

As a piece of biological engineering, bone puts manmade constructions to shame. The smooth exterior is made from layers called lamellar bone, within which is a honeycomb structure known as trabecular bone. This serves to strengthen without adding weight. In longer bones, such as those of the arms and legs, the hollow centre — or medullary cavity — is filled with bone marrow, the fatty tissue responsible for producing blood cells. It’s a masterpiece of structural design which, when viewed under a microscope, reveals an even more intricate world.

I’d carry out a full examination later when I reassembled the woman’s bones in their correct anatomical positions. That didn’t mean I couldn’t make an initial assessment now. Lifting the dripping skull from the pan where it had been macerating, I rinsed it off in clean water. It gave little clue of the person it had once been. Bone might form the underlying framework, but it’s the skin and muscles that give our faces animation and character. Without them the skull is only a calcium relic.

Though still a useful one.

The skull’s angular shape suggested white ancestry, as did the narrow, high-bridged nose and relatively small jaw. Although that was far from conclusive, it might help Ward when it came to searching for a possible match on the missing-persons database. I’d already seen the general condition of the young woman’s teeth during the post-mortem, enough to give me an idea of her age and lifestyle. More interesting now was the slight but distinct overbite, the upper front teeth overlapping the lower. It would have been noticeable in life, which was another feature that might help with identification.

Setting the skull in the fume cupboard to dry, I began taking the rest of the cleaned bones from the soup-like detergent bath and rinsing them off. I was keen to take a closer look at the ball-like head of the right humerus, the long bone of the upper arm, and the corresponding socket on the scapula, or shoulder blade, to see if the dislocation had caused any damage not shown on the X-rays.

It hadn’t. Both were in good condition. If the dislocation was the result of manhandling when the mummified body was moved, then it hadn’t caused damage to either the desiccated soft tissue or the joint itself. Although it wasn’t necessarily conclusive, it was another indication that the injury had occurred while the young woman was still alive.

Though not for long.

As I continued rinsing and putting the cleaned bones to dry, I found more evidence to support my earlier estimate of the victim’s age. The pubic symphysis — a part of the pubic bone that over time changes from ridged to flat — suggested an individual still in her twenties. So did the femurs. In childhood, the end of the thigh bone is capped by a thick pad of cartilage. Over adolescence this ossifies, transforming into bone and gradually fusing with the femur’s shaft. The process is known as epiphyseal union, and at first a line marks the junction of the two surfaces. Soon even this fades until, by the mid-twenties, it disappears altogether.

Faint lines were still visible here, but only just. And the sternal rib ends were smooth rather than displaying the more granular appearance that develops in later life. Taken together, it was another confirmation that the victim was no older than her mid-twenties at most. Probably younger, given that not all her wisdom teeth were fully erupted.

I was placing the last of the ribs in the fume cupboard when my phone started to vibrate. Damn. Pulling off my gloves, I left the examination room. The phone stopped before I could take it from my scrubs’ inside pocket. Even though I’d had a good idea who it would be, I felt a sinking feeling when I saw the name in the display.

Ward.

I found a secluded corner of the corridor and called her back. She picked up straight away.

‘I just missed a call—’ I began.

‘Hang on.’ The connection became muffled. I heard her speaking with someone else in the background, then she came back on. ‘What did you tell Adam Oduya last night?’

I’d not gone into details in the voicemail message I’d left earlier, only that I’d spoken to the activist after the public meeting. I hadn’t expected Ward to be pleased, but her tone was brusque and accusing.

‘I didn’t tell him anything. He came up to me outside as I left and introduced himself. It turns out I was a defence consultant on a case he worked on as a junior barrister.’

‘And you’re only just letting me know now?’

‘I didn’t know myself until he reminded me. It was years ago, I didn’t even recognize him.’

‘So did you tell him anything about the investigation?’

‘Of course I didn’t.’

‘Well, Oduya’s going on national TV and radio claiming someone confirmed the leaked information. Someone he knows and trusts, so are you asking me to believe he might have another old associate apart from you?’

‘I’m not asking you to believe anything,’ I shot back. ‘I’m just saying I didn’t tell him anything. He asked me to confirm it and I refused.’

‘But you didn’t deny it either.’

Here we go. I took a breath. ‘No.’

There was a pause. I could almost hear Ward trying to keep hold of her temper. ‘Tell me exactly what happened.’

I went through it all, missing nothing out. She said nothing until I’d finished.

‘OK.’ She gave a long exhalation. ‘I don’t suppose I can blame you for not denying the pregnancy angle, but it’s given Oduya more ammunition. The press are all over it, so I’m going to be making a statement at St Jude’s this lunchtime. I’d rather have waited until we knew more but I don’t have any choice now. So if he tries to speak to you again, for Christ’s sake do us both a favour and keep walking.’

I didn’t need to be told. Tension had started to stiffen the muscles in my neck. I kneaded them to try and ease it. ‘Have you found out where the leak came from?’

‘Not yet. It could be someone on the inquiry, but after Conrad’s accident there were too many people swarming round St Jude’s who might have overheard something. Could be any one of them.’

She sounded more weary than angry, but with the investigation lurching from one crisis to another that was understandable. I couldn’t imagine that Commander Ainsley would be giving her an easy time over it.

‘There’s another reason I called,’ she went on, in a calmer tone of voice. ‘How long before you’ve finished at the mortuary?’

I thought about what there was left to do. ‘I’ll have to come back to examine the foetus, but apart from that I should be done by the end of today.’

‘Good, because I want you out at St Jude’s tomorrow,’ Ward went on. ‘We need to make sure there aren’t any more surprises hidden away in there, so I’ve got a cadaver dog coming out to help with the search. I’d like you there as well.’

I’d expected that a cadaver dog would be brought in at some point. With a sense of smell hundreds of times more developed than ours, the animals were trained to sniff out decomposition too faint for the human nose to detect. They could pick up on traces of decay even through several feet of concrete, so a false wall shouldn’t pose much of a problem.

But as useful as they were, cadaver dogs weren’t able to distinguish between human and animal remains. That didn’t matter so much when an entire body was discovered, but partial remains and scattered bones weren’t always so easily identified. Which was why a forensic anthropologist was needed.

Still, I was surprised Ward was asking me. ‘What about Mears?’

‘He’s got his hands full already. Parekh’s scheduled to do the first of the post-mortems on the interred victims this morning, so he’s going to be busy with them for the next few days. And I’m not having anybody else brought in, not when I’ve already got the two of you.’

I thought I’d seen the last of the old hospital. I hadn’t been sorry to leave the place, but now I felt excitement stir at the thought of going back.

‘What time do you want me there?’ I asked.

I’d been intending to tell Ward what I’d heard from Lola’s neighbour, but at the last minute I decided against it. She’d got enough to contend with as it was, and I didn’t want to waste her time on what was probably just malicious gossip. For a former nurse rumoured to be implicated in a child’s death to be living near St Jude’s might raise eyebrows, but the more I thought about it, the less confident I felt that it was worth mentioning. Even if what the neighbour said was true, it was hard to see how it could have any bearing on the case. An old woman and her bedridden son were hardly credible suspects. They were a matter for social services, not the police.

Putting away my phone, I headed back to the examination room. Depending how long the reassembly of the young mother’s bones took, I thought I might drive over to St Jude’s at lunchtime to hear Ward’s statement. It was her first as SIO, and I was interested to witness how she handled it. Thinking about that, I almost walked into the changing-room door as it swung open. Someone came out wearing full scrubs, including a surgical cap. But I didn’t need to see the red hair to recognize the youthful face of Daniel Mears.

He hesitated, flushing when he saw me. Then his chin came up and he let the door swing shut behind him.

‘Morning,’ I said.

That was met with a stiff nod. ‘Have you seen Dr Parekh?’ he asked, looking past me, as though expecting her to materialize.

‘Not so far. She’s doing the post-mortems this morning, isn’t she?’

‘That’s right.’ He paused. ‘Should be interesting.’

It was a transparent attempt to make me ask why. I was tempted not to bite, but then I’d have spent the rest of the day wondering. ‘Why, what have you found?’

I’d only seen the interred victims briefly. Mears would have had a chance to study the bodies much more closely before they were removed and brought to the mortuary.

But I immediately regretted asking. He made a poor attempt not to look smug. ‘Oh, this and that. You probably saw for yourself that they’d been tortured?’

Tortured? Except for the deep chafing of the restraining straps, the torch beams I’d played over the victims hadn’t shown any obvious signs of physical trauma. Being walled up alive would qualify as torture by any criteria, but I knew that wasn’t what Mears meant.

‘I didn’t get a good look,’ I said, aware it sounded like an excuse.

‘Well, it was easy to miss,’ he said, with false magnanimity. ‘The skin slippage and discolouration made it hard to see, but there was localized scorching to parts of the epidermis.’

‘They were burned?’

‘Isn’t that what I said?’

His look of confusion was badly feigned. I hadn’t seen the two victims close-up, and the condition of their bodies would have camouflaged any burns to some extent. That didn’t make hearing about it now rankle any less.

‘The injuries were relatively small and too contained to have been caused by a naked flame,’ Mears continued, enjoying himself. ‘Some sort of heated implement, probably, rather than a blowtorch. Of course, I’ll have a better idea once I can examine them properly.’

‘Whereabouts were they burned?’ I asked.

‘All over. I found scorching on the head, limbs, torso. It looks random from what I’ve seen.’ He couldn’t keep the condescending smile from his face. ‘If it’s any consolation, I had to point them out to Parekh, as well.’

‘That’s because these old eyes don’t see so well in the dark,’ Parekh’s voice came from behind us. ‘Although in my defence I was concentrating on the injuries from the straps at the time.’

I hadn’t noticed the pathologist approaching. Evidently neither had Mears. His face flushed scarlet as the diminutive figure stopped.

‘Dr Parekh, I, uh, I was just…’

‘Yes, I heard. Hello, David.’ She gave me a smile, but there was a dangerous glint in her eye. ‘How are you getting on with the loft victim? Almost done, I imagine.’

‘Getting there.’

‘You never were one to waste time. Well, I’ll look forward to reading your report. I’m sure it’ll be as thorough as ever.’ She turned to Mears, whose flush had deepened. ‘If you’re ready, Dr Mears, I’d like to make a start on the first post-mortem. I’ll try not to miss anything but feel free to point it out if I do.’

Without waiting, she headed off down the corridor. Small as she was, she set a surprisingly fast pace, forcing Mears to hurry after her.

I was smiling as I turned away. But it died as I thought about what the taphonomist had said. The two victims who’d been walled in had faced a horrendous death however you looked at it. If they’d been tortured — burned — as well, it took their ordeal to another level of cruelty.

It was an horrific thought. Pushing aside the selfish regret that I couldn’t take a look at their remains myself, I went back into the examination room where the bones of the young mother were waiting.