Peter Corris - Wet Graves

The creature inside looked like a mummy, scarcely larger than child-size. It was naked, shrunken and a greeny-black colour. There was no hair on its head. As the pathologist had predicted, parts of the flesh seemed to have formed a mould on the canvas and came away when the material was pulled back. An exposed shoulder bone was white.

“Jesus,” Loomis said. “He looks a hundred years old.”

Carstairs nodded. “Absorption of the gas, as I said. Wasn’t young when he died. Bald, stooped possibly, arthritic, I’d say…”He leaned over and peered closely at the shrunken head and the clawlike hands. He straightened up and looked at me. “Dentition intact and a ring on the third finger of the left hand. Shouldn’t be too much trouble with identification.”

I nodded. I didn’t know whether to feel relieved or alarmed that the corpse bore no possible resemblance to Brian Madden. Before we moved on to the next one I noticed that the fingernails and toenails on the shrivelled body were long and curling.

“Doctor Carstairs?” Bennett said. He’d pulled back part of the canvas and stopped. There was a smell now, all right-of old meat and old milk and rotten eggs and everything else bad you can think of. Carstairs waved to Bennett to continue and he tugged the canvas apart. The mess was like a dozen or more squirming, green-black, half-skinned rabbits. The corpse had ruptured and the organs were splattered around and twisted together. The man had been big; his limbs and torso were still sufficiently defined to be able to see that, and he had a massive head which lolled drunkenly as if it had been half-wrenched from the shoulders.

“Broken neck,” Carstairs said, “and massive gas formation in the gut. Mr Loomis…?”

But Loomis had run for the door, his shoulders heaving. Carstairs looked at the closing door with amusement. I looked up at the ceiling and drew a breath. This wasn’t Madden either. “This is the best argument I’ve ever seen for cremation,” I said.

Carstairs snorted as we watched Bennett resume snipping. “You seem remarkably composed, Mr…?”

“Hardy. I can stand it. I’ve seen the insides of men before, doctor. I’ve seen them holding themselves together, literally.”

“Ah, a soldier. Tell me, which is worse. This or combat wounds?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “It’s all bad.”

“That one had been in the water longest, at a guess. It’s going to be very interesting sorting all this out. We have a serial killer here, do we?”

“Yes. Pretty unusual.”

Carstairs examined the black tongue protruding from the crazily-angled head. “Here it is, yes. I spent a couple of years in New York. Different story there.”

The next corpse was intact and less shrivelled than the first, though it had gone through the same process. The legs were drawn up towards the abdomen and the arms had locked in a rigid position across the chest. Naked and green-black like the others, Brian Madden had for some reason retained more dignity. Under the harsh light his body looked like a three-dimensional rubbing taken from the tomb of a mediaeval saint. The wet, matted hair lay on the skull like a metal cap; his eyes were closed and his mouth had set in a line that was almost a smile.

“How did he die, doctor?”

Carstairs ran his eye over the body. “Can’t say. No obvious signs of violence. Time will tell. You’re going?”

I was on my way to the door. “I said I could stand it. I didn’t say I enjoyed it.”

I rang Louise Madden in Leura and told her that I’d found her father, and how and where.

I had to wait a long time before she responded. “How did he die, Mr Hardy?”

“We don’t know. All I can tell you is that there were no signs of violence on the body. We’ll have to wait. I would’ve come to see you, but there’s no time.”

“What do you mean?”

“This’ll be a big story. No way of avoiding that. I thought you should get the news from me first. It’s not much but…”

“Thank you. My dad was a very private person. He wouldn’t like being part of a… a mass killing.” Her voice broke on the word. “Will I have to identify him?”

“I’m not sure, under the circumstances. I’m in touch with the police and I’ll let you know. Will you be all right? Do you have a friend or someone to stay with?”

“I’ve got plenty of friends. I’ll be all right.”

“I mean someone who can protect you. And you should contact the Leura police and ask them to keep an eye on things.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Look, Louise, this man is insane. We don’t know where he’s going to stop.”

“It sounds as if you know who he is.”

“It’s complicated. I talked to him. I didn’t know at the time that he was responsible.”

“Has he killed people other than… like my dad?”

“Yes, he has.”

“Then you should worry about yourself. If he knows you he might…”

“I can take care of myself. I don’t want to alarm you. I can’t see how he could find out that you employed me, but you never know. Just be careful. And I’m very sorry that it turned out like this. If there’s anything else I can do, just ask.”

“I’ll manage. And thank you, thank you. It’s better to know.”

“That’s right.”

I hung up and turned my attention to the scotch I’d poured before making the call. She was right. It was better to know. The most pain-wracked faces I’d seen were the people I’d reported negative results to- no sign of father, daughter, son, mother. And she was right about my exposure. If Lithgow had seen my car, he could trace me. He might even have heard me give my name to Betty Tracey. Had I given it? I couldn’t remember. If he only knew it, now was the time to come after me if that’s what he was going to do. I was dead tired, and there wasn’t so much as a pea rifle in the house.

The newshounds had been busy all night. A connection had been made between the salvage operation under the bridge and the tight security at the police dock. The coming and going of the pathologist had been observed, and something had been gleaned from a call to his office. Somebody had leaked some-thing about Colin Glover, and the bloodhounds were on the trail. Loomis turned the handling of the press over to Wren, who straight-batted for as long as he could, which wasn’t long. They got to Clyde Glover and the name Barclay came up. A fresh scent. By the late TV news a thin, speculative story was forming. Wren was confronted with a wild hypothesis that spoke of mass suicides as a result of some scandal involving the building of the bridge. He had no other recourse but to tell the truth. The morning headlines read: CURSE OF THE BRIDGE, and BRIDGE KILLER SOUGHT. The afternoon tabloids wouldn’t be so restrained. Some cop had leaked my name to the reporters. I was described as an ‘enquiry agent’.

I learned all this from Loomis and Wren, who called me to a morning conference at St Vincents during which we could get ten minutes with Meredith. We talked briefly in the lobby before being escorted upstairs. Wren told me that he had driven my car to the hospital and that it needed work on the clutch. He handed me the keys.

“Thanks,” I said. “How is he?” I asked Loomis.

“Strong as a bull. He’ll be back. You know, Hardy, it’ll do his prospects a lot of good if we can catch this loony.”

“I know.”

“And stop him,” Wren said. “He hasn’t killed only the sons of engineers.”

I said, “Right.”

We followed the bustling nurse down the corridor. She gestured for us to stop and went into the room alone. Loomis leaned against the wall. “Tobin’s none too happy with you.”

“Been out to see him, have you?”

Loomis flushed. “Watch it! Tobin’s a piece of shit to me. Always was. I only meant…”