The Scent of Death

Chapter 23

After its brief resurgence, the sun had given up the fight again by the following morning. The rain-dreary roads were lit with headlights long after it should have been light as I drove to the mortuary. I’d set off earlier than I needed to. I was due to meet Parekh later for the post-mortem on the bones recovered from the boiler, but before I did that there was something else I had to attend to.

The tiny bones of Christine Gorski’s foetus had been soaking for several days. Each morning I’d called into the mortuary to check on them and change the water for fresh. They hadn’t had much soft tissue left clinging to them to begin with: now even that had fallen away. There was nothing to keep me from examining them, but I knew Ward would want a report on the burnt remains from the boiler first. The foetal skeleton would have to wait.

The delicacy of the miniature bones seemed sadly poignant as I carefully removed them from the water. Some were so small that I could only pick them up with tweezers. The hairline fractures the X-rays had revealed in both tiny forearms were almost too small to see with the naked eye. I tried anyway. They would probably have been caused by scavengers or — more likely, given their subtle nature — when its mother’s mummified body had been moved further into the loft.

But they were too small to make out, no more than the faintest of lines against the bone-white slivers. Putting the bones back into clean water, I left them to their slow immersion and went out.

The post-mortem briefing for the burnt bones from the boiler didn’t take long. With only a left tibia, right patella and assorted phalanges from hands and feet to work on, there’d be precious little for the forensic pathologist to do, a fact Parekh seemed aware of when she breezed into the briefing room with an airy, ‘Morning, morning, let’s move this along, shall we?’

The briefing itself was a perfunctory affair, and as we filed out Parekh walked alongside me.

‘Have you seen your colleague recently?’ she asked.

I couldn’t think who she meant. ‘Who?’

‘Well, I’m not talking about the cadaver dog. Our esteemed forensic taphonomist, Daniel Mears.’

The last time I’d seen him was when he’d called asking for my help. I imagined he’d be finishing up by now, although since Ward had threatened to bring him in to examine the burnt bones instead of me, he was obviously still around.

‘Not for a few days. Why?’

‘Oh, no reason.’ The shrewd eyes held mine for a moment. ‘While you were here, I thought you might stop by and ask how he’s doing.’

She pushed through the door, leaving me to wonder what that meant as I followed. Ward had been similarly cryptic the night before when she’d mentioned that Mears was having problems. I’d assumed it was something to do with confirming the woman found interred with Crossly was Maria de Souza, perhaps using dental or medical records.

But he shouldn’t need my help with that. And even if he did, I’d had my fingers burned after bailing him out once. Parekh wouldn’t be aware of that, but I wasn’t going to make the same mistake twice. Whatever trouble Mears was having, this time he was on his own.

The post-mortem was as routine as expected. X-rays revealed no healed fractures that could potentially help with identification, and the rest merely confirmed what I’d already seen as I’d removed the bones at the scene. The considerable size of specimens such as the spade-like scapula pointed to a large stature, suggesting this individual was probably — though not definitely — male. Using the tibia’s measurements, I’d refined my preliminary estimate of height and calculated it to be around one hundred and eighty-five centimetres. An inch or so over six foot. But that wasn’t definitive: although the shin bone was a useful indicator of height, ideally any sort of estimate would be based around the length of other long bones as well.

It was the best I could do, though. And neither Parekh nor I could even hazard a guess at the probable cause of death. Although the two broken rib sections we’d recovered had obviously been caused by some sort of blunt trauma, there was no way of saying if they were a contributing factor or not. The ribs had both broken on the diagonal, in what were known as simple fractures. Common in falls, the bone had been snapped clean in two, creating a jagged, knife-like edge. An injury like that could easily have been fatal if the sharp bone had pierced the heart or severed an artery, or even punctured a lung, although that would have had less immediate consequences.

The problem was, I couldn’t say for sure that’s what had happened. The injuries could also have happened post mortem, after the victim was dead. The only thing I could say for certain was that the ribs were already fractured when the body was burned. Their broken surfaces were as blackened and charred as the rest, a sure sign they’d been exposed to the fire. If they’d been damaged afterwards — when the brittle remains had been taken from the boiler, say — then the exposed interior would show the pale ivory of unburnt bone.

Still, some interesting facts did emerge. Gently brushed clean of soot, I could see that the head of the right tibia and the inner surface of the patella showed some wear, though not very much. The phalanges told a similar story: this was an adult who’d lived long enough to show early degenerative changes in the joints, but not enough to suggest they’d reached an advanced age.

‘Based on that, I’d estimate mid-thirties to forties,’ I told Whelan. Ward had left immediately after the post-mortem, summoned to another briefing with Ainsley. Her deputy had the shadow-eyed look of someone who’d had another late night himself.

‘How sure are you about the height?’

‘I’d feel happier if it was based on more than one bone, but the tibia length is usually fairly reliable. Why, do you think you know who this is?’

‘Maybe.’ He seemed to debate how much he should say, then shrugged. ‘We’re still looking into associates of Darren Crossly, particularly anyone who used to work at St Jude’s. As well as Maria de Souza, we’ve turned up someone else whose description more or less matches what you’ve said about the remains from the boiler. His name’s Wayne Booth, worked as a porter with Crossly. Forty-five years old, single, a shade under six foot and heavily built.’

It wasn’t far out from my estimates for age and stature, but not as close as I’d like. ‘Forty-five’s at the upper end of the range, but still possible. I’d have expected someone taller, though. When did he go missing?’

‘Eleven months ago.’

That was seven months after Lola had said her son had his stroke, and considerably less than the fifteen months since Darren Crossly, Maria de Souza and Christine Gorski had last been seen alive. But Whelan anticipated my objection.

‘We’ve still only his mother’s word for how long Lennox has been ill and, given what we know about her, I’d put as much faith in that as a fart in a thunderstorm. And you said yourself the age and height were only estimates. No offence, but how much can you tell from a shin bone and a kneecap?’

It was a fair point. I liked to think my estimates were reasonably accurate, but I wasn’t going to let my pride get in the way if the facts said otherwise.

Still, I wasn’t entirely convinced. ‘What else do you know about him?’

Whelan grinned. ‘That’s the good bit. After he was laid off as a porter when the hospital shut down he got a job as a security guard. Guess where?’

‘You’re joking. At St Jude’s?’

‘Night-watchman, believe it or not. Didn’t last long, because it was only a few months later they decided it didn’t need actual guards and made do with the dummy CCTV cameras instead. But I’d say Booth’s the odds-on favourite to be who we found in that boiler.’

‘Did he have a dental palate?’ I asked, thinking about the crisped piece of wire and plastic with the attached porcelain teeth we’d uncovered from the ashes.

Whelan gave a frustrated shake of his head. ‘The description we have of him doesn’t say. We’re checking to see if he went to any dentists in the area, but if he did we haven’t found them yet.’

That wasn’t unusual. There was no national database for dental records, so it was a case of trawling around dentists’ surgeries hoping to find the right one. I’d worked on investigations before now where the police had to resort to placing adverts in dentistry magazines.

Even so, this was a potentially important lead. Darren Crossly had already been positively identified as one of the interred victims, and it was looking likely that his sometimes-girlfriend, Maria de Souza, could be the woman found with him. And despite my reservations about his age and height, this missing Wayne Booth — not only a former porter at St Jude’s but also a night-watchman after its closure — seemed likely to be the last victim.

It was tempting to tie all these strands up into a neat parcel, to assume that Lennox had been involved in stealing and selling hospital drugs with the other three, before turning on them and concealing their bodies in the old hospital. Even Christine Gorski could fit into that scenario: given money for one last fix by her brother, she could have gone to St Jude’s intending to buy and blundered into a situation that led to her being killed as well.

Yet, tempting as it was, the theory was still pure supposition. And if the case against Gary Lennox fell apart, the rest of it would come crashing down as well.

I worked until lunchtime. Whelan had left long before, and so had Parekh. Strictly speaking, I could have finished sooner myself. I’d already had a good look at the burnt bones during the post-mortem. Unlike fleshed remains, these were too delicate to risk soaking, but beyond a gentle brushing down they didn’t need cleaning anyway. Most of the joint surfaces were already visible and the few crisped scraps of tissue that remained either came away with the soot or were too small to worry about.

But I was still bothered by what Whelan had said about Wayne Booth. The former porter and security guard from St Jude’s seemed a likely candidate for the bones that had been burned in the boiler, yet I was uneasy about the discrepancies between his age and height and my own estimates. I’d be the first to admit this wasn’t an exact science. Genes and lifestyle could play a part, causing some people’s joints to age sooner than others. And not everyone’s limbs were in exact proportion to the rest of their body.

Still, I didn’t like the idea of being so far out. So I spent a fruitless couple of hours poring over the bones again, checking and re-checking my calculations to see if there was anything I’d overlooked first time round.

There wasn’t.

Finally, accepting I’d done all I could, I stopped for lunch. A late one, I amended, seeing the time. The bones still had to be cleaned before they were boxed away, and I hadn’t got around to the partial palate we’d recovered. A forensic dentist would be examining it at some point, but I wanted to take another look myself.

It could wait till after I’d had lunch, though. Since I hadn’t brought anything with me and there were no facilities at the mortuary, I went out to find somewhere to eat. There were no shops nearby, but there was a pub I’d been to before. It was only a five-minute walk away, so I set off for that.

The day hadn’t improved while I’d been inside. It was still gloomy, and the mist-like drizzle penetrated and chilled. The pub was two streets away, done over in a kitsch London theme. It was crowded, the smell of damp coats mingling with beer and hot food. There were law courts nearby and the clientele was mainly lawyers and barristers, their confident, plummy tones forming a noisy backdrop. I ordered a sandwich and coffee at the bar, then looked around for a table. Most were full, but there was an empty chair at one over in a corner. Careful not to spill my coffee, I made my way across. There was already someone sitting there, but it wasn’t until I was closer that I saw who it was.

Mears.

The forensic taphonomist was the last person I wanted to eat lunch with. But there was nowhere else, and even as I hesitated he looked up and saw me. From his expression he was as enthusiastic about sharing a table as I was, but by then there wasn’t much choice.

‘Anyone sitting here?’ I asked, indicating the empty seat.

He took a second to answer, as though considering lying, before giving a listless shrug. ‘No.’

A half-eaten sandwich and a pint of beer were on the table in front of him. There was another empty glass next to it, and as I sat down he furtively moved it further away, as though to disclaim it.

‘How’s it going?’ I asked, to break the silence.

‘OK.’ Another shrug. ‘You know. Good.’

He seemed ill at ease, staring at his hands as he rotated his beer glass on the table. I had the feeling he’d like to have emptied it. I glanced around the press of bodies to make sure no one could overhear what we were saying. But the hubbub of conversation made it hard enough to hear ourselves.

‘Has Ward got you working on the identification?’ I asked, keeping my voice down anyway. I didn’t say whose: he’d know I meant Maria de Souza.

‘Who told you that?’

‘No one. I just assumed you would be.’ God, he really was jumpy. I hoped my sandwich wouldn’t take long to arrive.

‘Oh. Right. Yes, I’m, er, I’m working on it now.’

He took a drink of beer, almost gulping it down. Ward had touched on him having problems, and so had Parekh’s thinly veiled hint earlier. Watching him now it was obvious there was something going on, but Mears’s troubles were none of my business. It wasn’t my job to nursemaid him. Telling myself that, I looked at the absurdly young face and tried not to sigh.

‘Is everything all right?’ I asked.

‘Why shouldn’t it be?’

‘I just wanted to make sure. The last time I saw you—’

‘Everything’s fine! There’s just a lot to do. Maybe if Ward gave me a chance to finish one job before springing another on me I might—’

He stopped himself, his cheeks flaming red. Here we go again, I thought, resigned.

‘Is there something you’d like a second opinion on?’ I asked quietly.

He bit his lip, blinking furiously as he stared at his glass. ‘I can’t seem to—’

‘Cheese sandwich?’

A young woman stood by the table, holding a plate. I managed a quick smile. ‘Thanks.’

Mears stared furiously at his lap as she set it down. I waited till she’d gone.

‘Go on.’

But the moment had passed. ‘Doesn’t matter,’ he mumbled.

Standing up, he gulped the rest of his beer and then pushed past the table, knocking it so that my coffee slopped into its saucer.

‘Wait a second,’ I said, but he was already forcing his way through the crush of bodies towards the door. One portly man in a pinstripe suit was jostled and almost spilled his drink as Mears pushed past.

‘And that, gentlemen, is the sort of attitude we have to deal with today,’ he announced, glaring after him.

I don’t think Mears even noticed.