White Corridor

16

“There’s no blood,” the detective sergeant remarked, searching the spot where Finch had fallen. “He must have given his skull a good crack.”

“An autopsy will show if there’s been any cranial bruising or bleeding into his internal cavities.” Kershaw sighed and rubbed his hand across his face. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think he did this to test me. Did Raymond tell you who Finch’s successor is to be?”

“I really don’t think this a good time to have that conversation,” said Longbright. “I’m appointing you in charge of this case, Giles. You knew him well, and you’re familiar with his room.”

“I’m technically a forensic scientist, not a coroner.”

“I assume you’re fully trained in pathology, otherwise you wouldn’t have been applying for Finch’s job. I heard you received the highest pass-grade in your year.”

“But I could be prejudicial to the findings,” Kershaw warned. “In these circumstances, you’re meant to appoint an outsider.”

“I’m not meant to do anything,” Longbright informed him.

“This is the PCU, not the Metropolitan Police, and you’re now in charge. Call Bimsley in and keep him on site until you’ve got some preliminary findings. I don’t want you left alone in here.”

“I say, that’s a bit strong.” Kershaw rose and flicked back his hair, affronted, his public school background drawn to the fore in any confrontation with someone he considered to be from an inferior class. “I’m assuming you’re appointing me because you trust me.”

“Yes,” Longbright admitted, “but I also sent you down to visit the morgue earlier, which makes you a potential suspect with a strong motive, placed at a possible crime scene at the estimated time of death.”

For once, Kershaw was dumbfounded. “Then I can’t possibly be seen to be investigating my victim’s murder. I can’t find myself guilty.”

“You might try taking Mr. Bryant’s advice about thinking instinctively rather than putting all your trust in the circumstantial evidence. I want a report from you before we close tonight.”

Returning to the PCU, the detective sergeant found DC Mangeshkar at work in the office she shared with Bimsley. “Why were you looking for Giles Kershaw this morning?” she asked. The forensic scientist had informed her of Meera’s visit to the mortuary.

“I was going to ask him if I could help out with the unidentified female they brought in. I didn’t think Finch would let me watch the postmortem; I just wanted to examine his case notes. I heard it had already gone down to Bayham Street, so I went there.”

“Did you take a set of keys with you?” Longbright asked, already knowing the answer.

“I had to, because when Finch is alone in the room with the door shut he keeps his headphones on and doesn’t hear you knocking.”

“You found him, I take it.”

“Yes, but Finch told me to leave. He must have heard my key in the lock, because he opened the door before I could. But he wouldn’t let me in.”

“Why not?”

“He was in the middle of an argument. Kershaw was asking him why he’d changed his mind about something. I didn’t hear Finch’s reply but he sounded bloody angry, told Kershaw that he was immature and careless. I decided to leave them to it, and came back here.” Presumably Kershaw had gone specifically to complain to Finch about being passed over for his promotion, and the old man had given him a piece of his mind, after which Kershaw had left the coroner alone in the room.

A grim thought formed in Longbright’s mind. Access to Bayham Street Morgue was restricted. The Met could arrange visits via its resident pathologist, as could members of the PCU. The room’s tiny windows were all bolted, and its only door was locked. The good news was that all the sets of keys were now accounted for. Finch, Kershaw and Mangeshkar had been holding a set each, which left the final bunch of keys on the hook behind Arthur Bryant’s desk, from where Banbury had borrowed them.

The bad news was that if Kershaw found enough reason to suspect homicide, the restricted access to the morgue limited the murder suspects to someone in the Peculiar Crimes Unit itself.

“Meera, you’ll have to stay here, too,” Longbright said.

Mangeshkar looked more furious than the detective sergeant had ever seen her. “That’s ridiculous. I’ve done nothing wrong.”

“Wait, let me think for a minute.” Four sets of keys, four suspects, she thought, but anyone in the unit could have walked into Arthur’s office and taken them. If we have to suspect each other, all the trust we’ve built up over the years will be destroyed. Oswald’s death could achieve something that none of our enemies has managed to do. It could divide us and bring about the end of the unit.