The Scent of Death

Chapter 17

Mortuaries are strange places even during daytime. At night they take on a character all their own. Not because there’s anything profoundly different then. There are few windows: for obvious reasons, most rely on artificial lighting. And, like hospitals, mortuaries are a twenty-four-hour business.

Yet, for all that, I’ve always felt that something still changes. Never noisy or bustling even at their busiest, at night mortuaries slow even more. The quiet that descends has a different quality, pensive and more hushed. Weighted, almost. The awareness of the silent dead who inhabit the building, their bodies laid out on metal tables or stored in cold, dark cabinets, seems heightened. Perhaps it’s a primitive response to the fall of night coupled with the proximity of death which, on some instinctive level, we still baulk at. Or an effect of our body-clock running down as we approach the small hours, a psychological and physiological protest at the disruption to its natural, diurnal rhythm.

Or perhaps it’s just me.

My shoes squeaked on the floor as I walked down the corridor. A night-shift mortuary assistant told me where to find Mears, though not without a sniff of disdain when I’d explained who I was there to see.

‘Rather you than me.’

Mears certainly knew how to make friends, I thought. So why are you here? I didn’t owe the forensic taphonomist any favours, and I’d had a long enough day already. But I’d worked on cases before where egos had got in the way, and I knew how damaging it could be. Even if Mears and I didn’t like each other, the investigation shouldn’t suffer because of it.

Besides, I was keen to take another look at the interred victims’ remains.

I found him in the small examination room the mortuary assistant had directed me to. The first surprise was that he was in full scrubs and wellington boots rather than a lab coat like the one I was wearing. Mears hadn’t wanted to say over the phone why he needed help, but he should be well past the earlier stages of the examination process by now, when scrubs would be necessary.

He was leaning over a reassembled skeleton laid out on an examination table, carefully adjusting the position of one of the bones. He straightened when I entered, and I was shocked by the sight of him. His already pale face looked bone white, making the freckles and red hair more noticeable than ever. Unshaven and with dark rings under his eyes, he looked like he hadn’t slept in days.

‘Ah, you’re here!’ He sounded so relieved he was almost effusive. ‘You made good time.’

At that time of night there hadn’t been much traffic. I went over to the skeleton he’d been poring over. I knew from its relatively small size which one it was.

‘This is the female victim?’ I said, taking a pair of gloves from a dispenser.

‘Yes, I, er, I was just finishing off.’

I couldn’t see how there could be much left to finish. He’d carried out the same procedure as I had for Christine Gorski, disarticulating the bones and cleaning them of soft tissue before reassembling them for examination. It was a fundamental part of our work, a process that with practice soon became second nature. I was so familiar with it by now I could almost do it blindfolded.

Although, I had to admit, I’d struggle to improve on the job Mears had done here. The unknown woman’s bones were pristine and laid out immaculately. Each one had been positioned exactly the same distance from its neighbour, virtually to the millimetre, as far as I could tell. It was an impressive piece of reassembly that could have graced the pages of any textbook, bestowing a symmetry no living skeleton would possess.

‘Nice work,’ I commented, pulling on the gloves.

Privately, I thought that degree of precision was unnecessary, but it would have been churlish to say so. And right then I was more interested in the dark marks I’d seen on the bones. The smallest was roughly the diameter of a thumbnail, while the largest — this one on the pubic bone — was the size of a small hen’s egg. All were a yellowish brown in colour, like splashes of weak coffee on blotting paper.

I could also see hairline cracks on the left ulna and radius, the long bones of the lower arm, as well as on several of the ribs. Ward had mentioned fractures, but these weren’t the sort of injuries I’d expect from torture or a beating. There were no radiating fracture lines from a single point of impact, or complete fractures where the broken ends had separated from each other. These looked more like they’d been caused by bending or shearing forces. And the bones of the skull appeared intact. If the victim had been beaten, her assailants had avoided her face.

Turning my attention back to the patches of discolouration, I picked up a right metacarpal, one of the slender bones of the hand. A dirty yellow blemish marred its creamy surface.

‘So these are the burns? How many are there?’

‘Thirteen. On the arms, legs, feet. Skull.’ Mears was starting to regain his poise, either the compliment or the shop talk restoring his equilibrium. Good. ‘All places where the bone was thinly covered by skin. I also found additional burning on the sloughed epidermis where there was no underlying bone, like the abdomen and leg muscles. Seems like they were inflicted at random.’

‘And they’re definitely burn marks?’ They certainly looked like it, but the only way to be sure would be to take sections of the discoloured patches to examine under a microscope. I could see excisions in some of the bones where Mears had done just that.

‘There’s cracking at the microscale and the periosteum’s been damaged,’ he said, an edge creeping back into his voice. ‘Given the discolouration as well, there’s nothing else they could be.’

‘Do you still think a soldering iron could have caused them?’ I asked doubtfully.

‘Or something like it, yes, without a doubt.’ His confidence was growing now he could expound on familiar territory. ‘I wondered about the end of a cigarette, because of the general size. But that wouldn’t be hot enough. It would have to have been held in place for longer for the heat to penetrate to the bone, so it would have burned right through the skin. There was localized scorching to the epidermal and dermal layers over the bone, but that’s all.’

That didn’t make sense. I’d have expected heat so intense as to discolour the bone to cause far more damage to the overlying tissues, regardless of what was used. ‘How localized?’

‘Approximately the same size as the bone burns.’ Mears was obviously feeling more like himself, enough for his smile to verge on condescending. ‘That’s why I think something that can focus intense heat into a small area, like a soldering iron, was probably used.’

That still didn’t sit right with me, but this was Mears’s case, not mine. And he sounded certain enough. I set the metacarpal back where I’d found it. ‘Is it the same on the other victim?’

Mears reached out to adjust the bone I’d just put back, minutely altering its position until it was perfectly aligned with its neighbours. He didn’t answer at first, and when I looked up I saw the blood had rushed to his cheeks.

‘I, er, I’m not sure. I think so.’

‘Can’t you tell?’ I asked, surprised.

‘Yes, of course. I mean… not yet.’ He cleared his throat. ‘That’s sort of why I called you.’

‘OK, I can certainly give you a second opinion,’ I said, still bemused.

I couldn’t see why he was so flustered if that was all he wanted. There was nothing wrong with asking for another viewpoint if something wasn’t clear cut. I’d done it myself on more than one occasion, particularly early in my career when I was still finding my feet.

But Mears shifted uncomfortably. Again, he fractionally altered the position of the phalange. ‘Er, that isn’t… I mean, it’s not…’

He made a needless adjustment to a floating rib, then started to do the same to one at the other side. I put my hand on it to stop him.

‘Why don’t you show me what’s going on?’

He nodded, still colouring crimson. ‘Yes. Yes, all right.’

I followed him into the corridor, peeling off my gloves and dropping them in the bin on my way out. He went along the corridor and opened the door to one of the bigger examination suites. It was in darkness. Lights flickered on overhead, buzzing to life as he clicked a switch. I blinked at the sudden brightness, then saw what was waiting in there.

It was like something from a butcher’s shop.

There were three stainless-steel examination tables in the room. Lying on the one at the far end was the second victim’s body. It had been denuded of bulk soft tissue and a start had been made on disarticulating the connective tissues of its joints. The left foot had been separated at the ankle, and the lower leg had been neatly severed at the knee. The results bore a superficial resemblance to a butcher’s block, but it was all beautiful, painstaking work.

But although cuts had also been made to the pelvic joint, these had been less carefully executed. This was a much bigger individual than the other victim, and the main joints correspondingly harder to sever. The creamy white ball and socket of the hip were exposed but still connected, the tough tendons and cartilage hacked at and torn as though someone had wrenched at them in a tantrum. A fine-bladed scalpel lay discarded on the table nearby, along with several larger knives. All were soiled and greasy from use, and I saw now that attempts had been made to cut through other joints before being abandoned.

I’d halted, taken aback when I saw the remains. Now I understood why Mears had called me. He should have been much further along than this. I’d expected the reassembly of the other victim to be almost finished. At the very least the bones should have been macerating by now.

I looked at Mears, at a loss. He attempted to draw himself up.

‘I, er… I seem to have fallen behind schedule.’

That was an understatement. But I was less shocked by how long it was taking him as by why. He’d done a flawless job of cleaning and reassembling the woman’s remains, so it was hard to see why this should be any different. Although the victim’s larger size might make the physical aspects more difficult, that didn’t explain the mess Mears had got himself into.

‘What happened?’ I asked.

‘Nothing happened. It’s, uh, it’s just it’s taking longer than I expected.’

‘So why didn’t you ask one of the assistants for help?’

Mears looked wretched as he struggled for an answer. ‘I–I thought I could manage.’

I was beginning to understand what was going on now. I thought again about the female victim’s skeleton, perfectly laid out in the other examination room.

Too perfectly.

‘How long did you spend on the woman’s remains?’ I asked.

It was like watching a balloon deflate. He shrugged, trying to affect nonchalance. ‘I don’t know. You know how it is, you can’t rush these things.’

No, you couldn’t. But there was a world of difference between taking long enough to do something properly and wasting time. Parekh had commented on how methodical he was, and the reassembly of the woman’s skeleton showed he was clearly a perfectionist. But that wasn’t always a good thing. He’d let himself become too wrapped up in the minutiae of the first reassembly, obsessing over unnecessary details at the expense of the larger picture. Then, when he ran out of time, he’d panicked and made things worse.

‘Does Ward know?’ I asked, although I could already guess.

‘No!’ He looked horrified. ‘No, I… I didn’t want to bother her with it.’

Of course he didn’t. And he wouldn’t have been in any rush to tell his employers, either. Mears wouldn’t have wanted to admit there was a problem, probably not even to himself. So he’d dug himself deeper and deeper into a hole of his own making, until he’d grown desperate enough to call me.

What puzzled me was that he’d allow himself to make such a basic mistake in the first place. It was the sort of mistake a rank novice would make, not an experienced…

I realized then. Mears was watching me, looking flustered and scared. And younger than ever.

‘This is your first time on a murder investigation, isn’t it?’ I said.

‘What? No, of course not!’ But he avoided my eyes, and the flush on his face deepened even more.

‘How many have you worked on?’

‘Enough.’ He shrugged. ‘Three.’

‘On your own?’

‘That’s beside the point.’

No, it wasn’t. The pressure of a murder inquiry could be overwhelming. Not everyone was able to cope. And there was a huge difference between assisting someone and working a major investigation on your own. I could remember the first time it happened to me, the sweat-inducing fear that I would embarrass myself. No amount of training or study could prepare you for that.

This showed Mears’s behaviour in a new light. Beneath the arrogance and bluster was a core of self-doubt. He’d been overcompensating to hide his inexperience.

‘I was supposed to be accompanying Peter Madeley,’ Mears blurted. ‘There was some sort of falling-out, though, and he quit. There wasn’t time for them to find anyone else, so I… I said I could do it.’

I’d heard of Madeley. He had a reputation as a solid forensic anthropologist, although I hadn’t realized he’d joined the private sector. But this was beginning to make more sense. Talented or not, Mears hadn’t been the first choice. He’d been a last-minute substitute to keep BioGen from losing their forensic services contract. No wonder I hadn’t heard of him.

No one had.

I rubbed my eyes, thinking it through. Ward needed to be told if one of her forensic consultants wasn’t up to the job. It might not be wholly Mears’s fault, but someone untried and untested couldn’t be entrusted with this sort of responsibility. There was too much at stake to take the risk. And it wasn’t as though I owed him anything.

Yet he’d shown with the fingerprints — perhaps the burns, too — that he was competent enough. Perhaps even more than that. It was possible this was just a case of first-night nerves. If I went to Ward now he wouldn’t only be thrown off the inquiry, it could permanently blight his career. I wasn’t sure I wanted that on my conscience either.

Mears was watching me worriedly, chewing his lip. ‘I’m not going to cover for you,’ I told him. ‘Ward has to know about this.’

‘I’m sure she’d be too busy to—’

‘She’s the SIO. If you don’t tell her I will.’

He looked away, but only as far as the butchered remains. His shoulders slumped. ‘OK.’

‘And if anything like this happens again, you need to tell someone. Don’t try and bluff your way through.’

‘It won’t—’

‘I mean it.’

His mouth clamped in a tight line, then he nodded. ‘Fine. But it won’t.’

I hope not. I looked at the wall clock and saw it was after midnight. I sighed.

‘I’ll go and change into scrubs.’

The larger victim’s remains looked worse than they actually were. Mears’s meltdown hadn’t resulted in anything catastrophic. None of his hasty attempts to disarticulate the joints had resulted in cuts to the bone and there was no post-mortem trauma to the skeleton. The damage was purely to the connective and soft tissue, which would be discarded anyway. It was just shoddy workmanship born of panic and, while that was bad enough, no real harm had been done.

He was subdued and quiet as we set about removing the last of the bulk soft tissue from the man’s body. Even though the underlying skeleton was far from fully cleaned, I could already see some of the bones bore the same yellowy-brown burns as were on the female victim. I would have liked the opportunity to study them more closely, but the priority now was to get them soaking so Mears could carry out a proper examination.

He worked painfully slowly, not so much from perfectionism now as nerves. For all his strutting, his self-confidence was a brittle thing. If he was going to recover from this, let alone be any use to the investigation, that had to change.

‘Looks like a big individual,’ I said. ‘Have you any idea of stature?’

‘I’ve estimated the height at a hundred and seventy-eight centimetres,’ he said sullenly.

So, about five eleven. A little over average height for a male, but no giant. ‘Any thoughts on gender?’

Determining if a badly decayed body was male or female wasn’t always straightforward. If the genitals had decomposed beyond recognition then the only way to attribute gender was by examining the bones themselves. Even then it wasn’t always easy, so it was unfair to put Mears on the spot.

But enough soft tissue had been stripped from these remains to reveal some skeletal characteristics, and I wasn’t asking for a definitive verdict. He sighed, as though this was all rather tiresome.

‘Well, obviously, I can’t say for certain at this stage. But the brow ridges are pronounced and the mastoid is large and clearly projects. Taken with the overall stature and heaviness of the bones, I don’t think there’s much doubt he’s male.’

I noticed that ‘he’s male’, suggesting that Mears had already made up his mind. That could be dangerous, though it was hard to disagree. The eyebrow ridges and bony protuberance of the mastoid process below the ear were usually reliable sex indicators. Although it doesn’t always follow, sometimes things are exactly as they seem. We already knew that the smaller victim who’d been tortured and interred behind the false wall was a woman. It was reasonably safe to say that the person who’d died with her was a man.

Mears was beginning to work more fluidly, I noticed, wielding the scalpel and saws with more assurance. An abrasive manner and confidence seemed to go hand in hand for him, but that was OK. I’d rather him be obnoxious and functional than an affable liability.

I began to cut through the connective tissue around the left hip. ‘What about age?’

He gave a listless shrug. ‘Thirty-five to fifty, judging by wear to the teeth.’

‘What sort of condition are they in?’

‘Why don’t you see for yourself?’ he said truculently.

I didn’t look up from what I was doing. ‘Because I don’t want to waste time checking something that’s already been done. I’m assuming you have done it?’

‘Of course I have! There’s staining that suggests he was a smoker who liked coffee, and enough fillings to say he didn’t look after his teeth but at least went to a dentist. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m trying to concentrate here.’

I smiled under my mask.

Mears’s confidence grew after that. He handled the physical aspects of the work with all the delicacy of a surgeon, and I could see why he’d come with such a glowing recommendation. Soon it was as though the panic attack had never happened. It wasn’t long before his innate sense of superiority reasserted itself.

‘You macerate at a higher temperature than I like,’ he sniffed, as we placed disconnected bones to soak in vats of warm detergent solution.

‘That’s fine when there’s time. You don’t always have that luxury during an investigation.’

‘Mm,’ he said blandly. ‘Each to their own, I suppose.’

Telling myself not to let him get to me, I flicked on the switch for the fume hood, letting the drone of the airflow drown him out.

But, ego restored, Mears had one last salvo to fire. We were in the changing room. The last of the victim’s bones had been left to soak overnight, ready to be rinsed and examined by lunchtime the following day. Make that later today, I amended, seeing the time. I’d changed back into my own clothes, dropping the scrubs into the laundry basket before I left. Neither of us had said anything since we’d left the examination suite, and I’d wondered if Mears would want any help with the reassembly. It should be straightforward enough now but, given the chance, I’d like to examine the burn marks on the victims’ bones more closely.

Mears showed no sign of offering, though. The silence stretched on between us. The forensic taphonomist didn’t so much as look my way as he packed his things away in his flight case, as though ignoring me might wipe out his loss of face. It was only when I was putting on my coat to leave that he finally spoke.

‘Well, thanks for the assist, Hunter.’ He had his back to me and addressed me without looking round. ‘I’ll be sure to tell DCI Ward you helped out. Let me know if I can return the favour.’

I stared at him. Thanks for the assist? Mears still didn’t look around, apparently preoccupied with fastening his shoes. I waited a moment, but that was obviously all he had to say. Unbelievable, I thought, letting the door swing shut behind me as I walked out.

It was after two in the morning and the streets were empty. I was fuming as I drove away. I should have let Mears sort out his own mess, I told myself, angrily crunching the gears. I didn’t want gratitude but I hadn’t expected him to revert to form so soon either. He was already rewriting what had happened, revising events into a more palatable version. By the time he told Ward — and I’d make damn sure now that he did — it’d probably sound like he’d done me a favour.

Still seething, I turned on to the cul-de-sac that housed Ballard Court and saw flashing blue lights outside. A fire engine was parked by the apartment block, its bulk out of place in the peaceful setting. The building itself seemed normal: there were no flames, and lights still shone in many of the windows. A few people were gathered in the grounds, some of them in nightclothes and dressing gowns, but they were already filing back inside.

No one tried to stop me as I went through the gates, which I took to be a good sign. I couldn’t see anyone I knew in the straggle of residents filing back through the doors, so I pulled over by the barrier to the underground car park and got out of my car. The cool night air was fouled by a stink of burning plastic. I went over to where fire officers were gathered by the big tender. Two of them were rolling up a hose with a distinct lack of urgency, while the rest stood around chatting.

‘What’s going on?’ I asked one of them, a woman whose curly hair crept out from beneath her helmet.

She gave me a wary look. ‘Do you live here?’

‘On the fifth floor.’

‘You sure?’

‘I can show you my keys, if you like. I’ve been working.’

‘No rest for the wicked, eh?’ But she relaxed. ‘Sorry, nothing personal but we’ve already had to escort one of your neighbours away for being too nosy. She wasn’t best pleased, but fires always bring out the weirdos.’

Thanks. ‘What happened?’

She gestured towards the apartments. ‘Some idiot tried to set fire to the bins. Not much damage, but the smoke carried up the chutes. Didn’t trigger the sprinklers but it set off the alarm.’

There were discreetly hidden refuse chutes on every floor in Ballard Court, where residents could drop their bags of rubbish into the bins below. They would have acted like chimneys, funnelling smoke up to the residential levels.

‘Who did it?’

‘Kids, more than likely. Bloody stupid, whoever it was. At least a place like this has proper safeguards, but these days you’d think people would have more sense.’

You would, but they rarely did. Still, Ballard Court was lucky. As well as security that included electrically operated doors and a twenty-four-hour concierge, it had a state-of-the-art fire-safety system as well. The same couldn’t be said for every block of flats.

‘Can I go in?’ I asked.

‘No reason why not. The fire’s out but we’ll be here a while yet. And seeing as you’re already up, there is one thing you could do.’

‘What’s that?’

She grinned. ‘You couldn’t stick the kettle on, could you?’