The Scent of Death

Chapter 13

I almost missed Ward’s lunchtime press statement. The young woman’s cleaned bones didn’t yield any surprises as I rinsed them off and put them to dry, but I couldn’t let go of what Mears had said. When the last of them were in the fume cupboard, I pulled up the photographs taken at the crime scene and during the post-mortem. Even though I knew I would have seen any burns already, I checked the photographs again for any evidence of charring on the young woman’s body I might have missed. Pale skin darkens during decomposition, while dark skin lightens, making it impossible to use skin colour as an indicator of ancestry. Even allowing for that and the drying effect of mummification, severe burns such as Mears had described finding on the interred victims would still be visible. I couldn’t rule out the possibility that she’d been burned on parts of her body destroyed by maggot activity — a suppurating burn on her abdomen would have been a target for flies to lay their eggs and wouldn’t have left bloodstains on the clothing, which might explain the gaping abdominopelvic cavity.

But I’d found no physical evidence to support that. Except for the close proximity of their bodies, there was nothing to suggest the deaths of the victims walled up in the hidden chamber and that of the pregnant woman in the loft were connected. I didn’t like coincidences, but it was beginning to look as though that’s all this was. Perhaps Commander Ainsley had been right to want Ward to treat the two crime scenes separately, I grudgingly admitted. Hidden away from prying eyes and all but forgotten, the derelict old hospital could hide all manner of secrets.

After poring over the photographs I finally accepted that I hadn’t overlooked anything. There had been no visible burns on the pregnant woman’s remains.

Leaving her bones drying in the fume cupboard, when I checked my watch I saw it would soon be time for Ward to give her statement. Hurriedly changing from my scrubs, I left the mortuary and drove to St Jude’s. Summer already seemed a long time ago; the year had swiftly embraced autumn. The light was subtly different now, the shadows longer and harder edged, while an underlying chill in the air bit like a harbinger of winter.

When I reached the hospital a small crowd was gathered around the hospital’s main gate. Cameras, TV vans and boom microphones clogged the road outside, and one lane had been cordoned off with metal barriers. I parked a couple of streets away and hurried back. I found a spot by the barrier on the edge of the scrum, where I’d have a good view from the sidelines. A microphone faced the waiting media just inside the gates, but no one stood at it as yet. Looking round, I saw Ainsley standing by himself at the back of the press. No one paid any attention to the commander, but in plainclothes there was nothing to identify him as a police officer.

I wondered if it was significant that he was standing on this side of the microphone rather than behind it with Ward.

There was no one else there I recognized. Including Oduya. The activist was nowhere to be seen, which was surprising. I’d thought he’d have jumped at the chance to present his case again in front of TV cameras. As I was wondering about that, a dark car drove down the hospital’s access road and pulled up inside the gates. Ward climbed out, together with Whelan and a smart young woman I took to be a police press officer.

The hubbub of conversation fell quiet as Ward stepped up to the microphone. Her face was deadpan, but the way she cleared her throat before she spoke betrayed her nerves. She’d made an effort to look the part, tethering the wayward hair into some sort of style and wearing a belted black mackintosh that concealed her pregnancy. I wondered if that was deliberate. It would be another unwelcome distraction if the press found out the SIO was pregnant as well as one of the victims.

I felt someone’s eyes on me and turned to find Ainsley looking over. He didn’t acknowledge me at first, and I wondered if he’d forgotten who I was. The disconcerting china-blue eyes stared for a moment, then he gave a short nod, turning away as Ward began to speak.

‘On Sunday evening…’ She flinched as a drone of feedback swelled from the PA speakers, drowning her out. The press officer whispered something and Ward moved a little further away from the microphone before continuing. ‘On Sunday evening, following information received from a member of the public, police officers discovered the body of a young woman in the derelict main building of St Jude’s Hospital. A subsequent search revealed the bodies of two more victims also inside. Pending formal identification, I am unable to release any of the victims’ details. However, I can confirm that all three deaths are being treated as suspicious.’

It was a typically bland holding statement, avoiding anything contentious and skirting around how little we knew so far. I noticed Ward had avoided mentioning the gender of the other two victims: that would have to be confirmed later.

She paused, more confident now as she looked out at the press.

‘There has been a claim made regarding the condition of one of the victims at the time of her death. At this present time, I can neither confirm nor deny such rumours, since to do so would risk compromising the ongoing inquiry. This is a highly complex and far-ranging investigation, so I would therefore ask…’

She trailed off as a commotion rippled through the crowd. Heads were turning towards a group of people making their way towards the front, journalists shuffling aside to let them through. Craning for a view, I saw it was a middle-aged man and woman, faces etched with strain. To one side and slightly behind was a much younger man, either in his late teens or early twenties, who walked with downcast eyes.

Leading them was Adam Oduya.

The activist’s expression was solemn as he forged a path through the journalists. His aura of confidence was a marked contrast to the unease of the three people accompanying him. They followed close behind, huddled together and darting nervous glances to either side.

Ward made an attempt to recover. ‘… I would therefore ask for patience while we continue our inquiries…’

But no one was listening. All eyes were on Oduya and the people with him as he stopped in front of Ward. He paid no attention to the microphones and cameras that were now being turned towards him.

‘This is Sandra and Tomas Gorski,’ he announced, loudly enough to be clearly heard by everyone there. He gestured to the young man with them, who ducked his head even further. ‘This is their son, Luke. And this is their twenty-one-year-old daughter, Christine.’

Holding up a large, glossy photograph, he turned it so everyone could see the young woman’s face. The press officer with Ward hurriedly stepped up to the microphone.

‘I’m sorry, this isn’t a public meeting. If you have any information—’

‘This family have a right to be heard!’ Oduya didn’t shout, yet his voice still dominated. I saw that uniformed officers were making their way through the crowd towards him. ‘Christine went missing from Blakenheath fifteen months ago. No one has seen or heard from her in all that time. Yet despite repeated appeals to the police, nothing has been done to find her!’

‘If you have any information please speak to one of our officers—’

‘Sandra and Tomas contacted me this morning in desperation!’ he continued relentlessly. ‘They’d nowhere else to turn, because their daughter—’

There was jostling as the first police officers hurried to reach him. Oduya brandished the girl’s photograph above him like a sword.

‘—because their daughter, Christine Gorski, was six months pregnant!’

Pandemonium broke out as a police officer tried to take hold of him. Journalists were yelling questions, but Ward put a hand on the press officer’s shoulder before she could say anything more. She spoke quickly to Whelan, who gave a nod and spoke into his phone. The police officers who had reached Oduya stopped, backing away slightly but still watchful.

‘All right, quiet, please,’ Ward said into the microphone. ‘Excuse me, can we have QUIET!’

Feedback from that last word whistled over the crowd of media. Silence fell, broken only by the whirr of camera shutters. Ward began to speak but Oduya was there first.

‘DCI Ward, out of consideration for the Gorski family, will you confirm if it’s true that one of the victims found at St Jude’s was pregnant—’

‘Out of consideration for all the victims and their families, I’m not going to release any information that could compromise an ongoing police inquiry. They deserve better than that,’ Ward responded. Twin patches of colour in her cheeks betrayed her anger. ‘However, I sympathize with Mr and Mrs Gorski and their family over their missing daughter. I understand how distressing—’

‘Our daughter’s been gone over a year!’ Sandra Gorski’s anguished cry cut across Ward. Next to her, her husband stared dead ahead, his face clenched. ‘We don’t want your sympathy, we want you to do something!’

Ward looked as though she’d been slapped, but then rallied. ‘And we will, I promise you. But a public forum isn’t the place to have that discussion. If you go with one of my officers now, then I give you my word I’ll hear what you have to say. After that, if you still want to air your grievances publicly that’ll be your decision. Thank you, that’s all.’

She’d turned and left the microphone before anyone had a chance to realize that she’d finished. As the press futilely shouted questions, I saw Whelan push his way towards Oduya and the Gorski family. There was a quick conversation, then he led them back through the police cordon towards the unmarked car Ward had arrived in.

The shouted questions continued, but the crowd of journalists was already starting to break up. They’d come hoping for news. Well, they’d certainly got it.

As I turned to leave myself I had a sudden feeling of being watched. I glanced back to where Ainsley had been standing, thinking it might be him. The police commander was nowhere to be seen, though, and the melee of journalists, photographers and TV cameras made it impossible to pick anyone out.

But the feeling persisted all the way back to my car.

The young mother’s bones had dried by the time I got back to the mortuary. Reassembling them was straightforward enough, and a more thorough examination produced nothing I didn’t already know. There were no healed fractures or other significant skeletal features that might help with identification, and the only new detail I’d been able to come up with was an estimate of her height. Gauging stature wasn’t as straightforward as simply measuring the remains from head to foot, as when someone is alive. Loss of soft tissue and deformation of the spine if the body was in a contorted position can either of them skew the results and potentially complicate any identification. While it’s possible to gain a rough estimate of height based solely on the lengths of some long bones from the limbs, since there was a full skeleton it was more accurate to use individual body segments, such as the skull, vertebrae and femurs. Using calipers to take measurements, I calculated that in life the woman would have been approximately one hundred and sixty-three centimetres tall. Around five foot five, give or take half an inch.

As I worked I did my best not to dwell on what had happened at St Jude’s, but it was never far from my mind. I was acutely aware that the mummified remains — now reduced to smooth, pale bone — had once been a young woman with parents and friends. A life. It might have ended in a dirty loft, yet there was more to a person than the manner of their death. And while I didn’t need reminding how important it was to remain detached, knowing who this individual might be brought a subtle change of perspective. I could tell myself that it wasn’t confirmed, that it might have been a different young woman’s grieving family at the hospital that afternoon. But even the possibility of a name had a personalizing effect, removing a layer of distance between me and the victim.

Now when I handled the slender bones they seemed to have more weight.

I’d almost finished when my phone vibrated in my scrubs pocket. I’d been half expecting a call and felt no surprise when I saw it was Ward again. She didn’t waste any time.

‘Are you still at the mortuary?’

‘Just finishing up.’

‘Stay there. I’m sending a set of dental records I want you to check against the loft victim. How soon can you let me know if they match?’

‘It depends if you want a detailed examination or just a basic comparison.’ The latter was no problem: any forensic anthropologist had enough knowledge to compare ante-mortem dental records with the teeth of a dead individual. But anything more complicated was better done by a specialist.

‘Basic is fine. We’ll get a forensic dentist to do a formal identification later, and we’ll be running a DNA test as well. They’ll both take time, though, and I need something to go on now. Can you do that?’

I could. ‘Are the dental records Christine Gorski’s?’

‘Heard about that, did you?’ Ward didn’t sound surprised, but by then it would have been all over the news and social media.

‘I was at St Jude’s earlier when Oduya turned up with her family.’

‘Then you’ll understand why I don’t want to wait days to find out if the body’s hers or not.’ Her exasperation was clear from her voice. ‘The annoying thing is Christine Gorski’s name was already on our radar even before Adam bloody Oduya pulled that stunt this afternoon. She’s not the only pregnant woman who’s gone missing but her description matches what we know about the body from the loft. Right sort of age, six months pregnant and been missing for fifteen, which fits your estimated time since death. We don’t know what clothes she was wearing on the day she disappeared, but it was during summer so a T-shirt and short skirt’s not out of the question. Her family seems decent enough. Father’s Polish, as you probably guessed, works for a sports retail company. The mother’s a secretary, brother’s a final-year arts student. Not exactly well off but they could afford white fillings for Christine when she was fifteen.’

I thought about the condition of the dead woman’s teeth. ‘Did she use drugs?’

‘She’d been in and out of rehab for heroin addiction since she was seventeen. The family lost touch with her for nearly two years, until she turned up out of the blue one day and announced she was pregnant. She was broke and said she wanted their help to get cleaned up for the baby’s sake.’

‘What about the father?’

‘Her parents don’t know, and it doesn’t sound as though Christine did either. My guess is she probably wound up working on the streets, because she was in no state to hold down a regular job. Her parents didn’t ask too many questions, they were just glad to have her back. They insist the change of heart was genuine, although they still didn’t trust her enough to give her any money. It was all set up for her to go into rehab again, but she disappeared the day before it started. That was when they reported her missing, and they haven’t seen or heard from her since.’

Sad as it was, I could understand why Christine Gorski’s disappearance hadn’t been prioritized by the police. Her disappearance would have been seen in the context of her addiction, just another drug addict deciding to avoid rehab, rather than anything more sinister. That must have made it all the more agonizing for her family. The months of being in limbo, of not knowing what had become of their daughter, must have been sheer torture for them.

If I’d been in their shoes, I would have gone to Oduya as well.

I told Ward I’d be in touch and went back into the examination room. The circumstantial evidence that the reassembled skeleton on the table was the physical remains of Christine Gorski was stacking up, but I couldn’t let myself be swayed by that. Nor did I want to look at the dental records that Ward was sending through. Not yet.

There are several stages involved in establishing a positive dental identification. To start with I made sure all the teeth were present — which they were, with the exception of a missing back molar — and recorded the location and nature of crowns and amalgam fillings. That done, I checked for any untreated conditions, noting a cracked tooth next to the missing molar as well as several small patches of caries.

I entered all these details on to a dental chart. It perhaps wasn’t as exhaustive as a forensic dentist’s would be, because I didn’t have the same breadth of experience. But I was confident it would be enough for Ward’s purposes.

Once I’d finished my inventory, I compared the chart I’d drawn up with the dental records Ward had emailed as a password-protected file. She’d included a photograph of Christine Gorski with them. It looked to have been cropped and enlarged from a group photo, taken when she was in her late teens. The brown hair was tied up in a semi-formal style, exposing a roundish face that was both attractive and ordinary. She’d been caught looking off to one side as though not entirely engaged in what was going on, and although she was smiling it looked artificial, a self-conscious pose summoned up for a camera rather than anything spontaneous. I studied it for signs of an overbite, but it was hard to tell.

Occasionally, a single unique feature can be enough for a positive ID. I’d once had a case where I’d been able to make an informal identification from a distinctively crooked front tooth. That had been an unusual situation, though. Ideally, there should be an absolute match between the dental records taken when a person was alive and the post-mortem dental exam. That wasn’t the case here. Neither the caries, missing molar, nor cracked tooth were present in Christine Gorski’s records.

But she hadn’t visited a dentist for five years before she’d disappeared, which was more than enough time to account for the changes. And the cracked molar that sat next to the empty socket hinted that the missing tooth could have been dislodged by force. Knocked out rather than extracted.

More compelling than these inconsistencies were the similarities between the two. According to her records, Christine Gorski had an identical overbite to the one I’d noted on these remains, and the dental work of the woman from the loft matched hers to the last detail. Even down to the white fillings in two back molars. I went through it all again just to be sure, but there wasn’t any doubt.

We’d found Christine Gorski.