White Corridor

27

Dissecting the body of his former colleague was not only unethical, but a profoundly depressing experience. Kershaw pushed a blond lick from his eyes and set aside the scalpel, flexing his slender fingers. He looked down at the splayed body on the steel table. Even though the temperature in the converted gymnasium had fallen to around ten degrees centigrade, he was sweating. Finch would never have lived to see much of his retirement; the parts of his arteries that had not hardened were bubbled with developing embolisms. He must have suffered painful side effects, certainly enough to encourage the use of powerful painkillers. All the talk about finally being able to relax in his fishing hut in Hastings had been bravado, nothing more. The pathologist had known he was dying.

The thought recurred to Kershaw: Might he have arranged his own demise? If so, to what end? Bryant would doubtless suggest he had done it to annoy everyone.

He looked down at the old tyrant, laid out on the very dissecting table he had used for so much of his working life.

Kershaw had once read that the body weighed infinitesimally less after the spirit had departed. The ancient coroner’s life force had clearly evaporated now, for he had been reduced to a papery dry shell, the cocoon husk of a departed creature. Facially, he resembled an etiolated Boris Karloff. His arms were traversed with a tangle of partially collapsed veins and blossoms of broken blood vessels, but there were no recent marks of violence other than the ones on his neck and chest, nothing else to suggest that a struggle had taken place.

Finch had admitted his attacker in good faith, thought Kershaw, only to be surprised while his defences were down. If it wasn’t someone from the unit, it had to be Mills. Finch must have trusted the boy enough to turn away from him. The old man had been married, but never spoke of his emotional attachments. Was it possible he had a secret; could he have found the seventeen-year-old attractive, and acted inappropriately? He tried to recall any rumours he had heard about the pathologist, but came up with nothing untoward.

Kershaw rang the detective sergeant. “Are you still with Mills?” he asked. “Think he’s on drugs?”

“Absolutely not. Normal pupil dilation, clear speech, fast reactions, completely normal as far as I can tell. At least he’s talking now.”

“Any idea how tall he is?”

“About one hundred sixty-five centimetres,” Longbright replied. “Why?”

“Five five-he’s too short, Janice. Apart from the disparity between his visit and the time of death, the bruising angle is wrong. I don’t think he killed Finch. You didn’t find a small brown plastic bottle on him?”

“Nothing in his pockets, but we know he took Finch’s notes, even though he won’t admit it. They may still be on site. He’s wearing her neck chain, says she gave it to him. A piece of cheap gold plate, but there’s a name engraved on it, Lilith Starr. Sounds made up. Mills says she kept a squat on the Crowndale Estate, where he lives.”

“You think he’s just some opportunist thief who saw a girl he knew, followed the ambulance and plundered her dead body? Doesn’t that seem a little odd to you?”

“Come on, Giles, there are crime victims in Camden Town who are stripped before they hit the pavement.”

There was a knock at the door. “Have you finished?” asked Banbury, averting his eyes. It was bad enough that Bryant had asked him to photograph the deceased girl’s neck, without him having to see the dead face of a former colleague.

“Pretty much. You can come in now.” Kershaw pulled a Mylar tarp over the body and clipped it in place. “I tested for naltrexone and morphine. There’s none in his body, but he must have been suffering periodic bouts of pain. He would only have lasted a matter of months.”

“You think he knew that?”

“He should have done-he was a biologist, although they’re notoriously neglectful about their own workings.”

“Can I take another look around?”

“Knock yourself out,” said Kershaw, rubbing his eyes. “It’s gone eleven. I’m just about done here.” He looked about the sparse room. “I don’t know-there’s some trace evidence we’ve missed-‘

“There’s always something more.” Banbury peered out from behind a locker. “You can’t be expected to pick up on everything.”

“That was Finch’s main criticism of me. He said I rushed things, missed obvious opportunities. I don’t want to make that mistake now. This is my chance to put things right.”

The empty space on the drug shelves nagged at him. He had seen the bottles lined up on them often enough, knew how much of a stickler the old pathologist had been about them. There could be other explanations; he might have accidentally broken it, or forgotten to get the naltrexone replaced after use.

“Giles.”

The young forensic scientist turned around and saw what Banbury was holding up in his hand. “Where did you find that?”

“Your missing bottle. It had rolled right under the desk. It’s been used recently.” A syringe could be inserted through the plastic cap of the naltrexone to maintain sterility, but the bottle had not been completely emptied, and a small amount had leaked out. “When I photographed her, I noticed that the girl in the drawer had track marks on the back of her left leg. You don’t suppose he experimented on her by injecting this stuff?”

“It wouldn’t react on inert tissue. You need circulating blood to carry chemicals into the system. The only other explanation is that the boy came here with the specific purpose of stealing drugs, and that he somehow used it on himself, but that makes no sense. So we have a fresh mystery.”

“There’s something else,” said Dan, unlocking the body drawer and pulling it out. T think Mills came here to ensure that his girlfriend’s identity remained secret.“

“Why do you say that?”

Banbury gingerly felt inside the body bag. “He took her neck chain and swiped Oswald’s notes. Suppose he followed her to the morgue for the express purpose of protecting her, even beyond death? Because there’s this.” He pulled out Lilith Starr’s left arm and indicated a paler, scarred patch on the inside, just below her elbow. “She had a tattoo removed in the last year, not with a laser either.” He pointed to a faint red-and-blue mark on her skin. “You can just see the edges of the original design.”

“Something traditional. Looks like it might have been a heart with a banner,” said Banbury, peering closer. “We’ll need to check the local tattoo parlours. I think there’s one right on the edge of the Crowndale Estate, and there are several basement joints in Camden Town, not all of them legal. Many of the artists have signature patterns. Maybe one of them will recognise it. Meanwhile, Mills has to remain our main suspect. If Oswald discovered who she really was, maybe it was a secret worth killing to protect.” He answered his ringing mobile, then passed it over. “John May for you. He tried calling yours but couldn’t get through.”

“I thought they were going to leave us to handle this,” said Kershaw. “Anyone would think they were still at the PCU, not stuck in a bloody blizzard.” He took the call, mainly listening to instructions. “He wants us to take a shot of Lilith Starr’s face and send it on to Colin and Meera. A job for you, I think. I’ll tell you what, though. Those old boys aren’t in charge of this investigation. It’s not something that can be handled from long distance. We’re right here, on the ground. They won’t be able to take the credit if we’re the ones who manage to sort it out.”

“They’re not after credit, Giles,” said Banbury. “They were already working with Oswald when you and I were at primary school. They want to do something for him. Show some respect for once.” He was embarrassed by his colleague’s display of ambition. “I’ll get the shot.”