Simon Beckett - The Scent of Death

‘So she had private dental work when she was younger. That doesn’t sound like someone from a deprived background.’ Ward nodded to herself. ‘OK, that tells us a bit more about her. Early to mid-twenties, six to seven months pregnant with a likely history of substance abuse. If she went to St Jude’s she was potentially still using, but she could be from a family who could afford to pay for white fillings.’

‘Nice girl gone bad,’ Whelan said. ‘Very bad, if she was looking for drugs when she was pregnant.’

I saw Ward give him an annoyed glance, folding her arms across her stomach in an unconsciously protective gesture. It wasn’t hard to guess her thoughts: the dead woman’s pregnancy had been at a similar stage to hers. I’d been able to confirm my original estimate from measurements of the foetal skeleton. The foetus was between twenty-five and thirty weeks old, meaning its mother had been in either the later stages of her second trimester, or possibly the start of her third.

But, despite my best efforts, that was all I could say. X-rays had revealed hairline fractures on the tiny radius on the right forearm and ulna on the left, but in all likelihood the damage was post-mortem, caused either when the mother was moved or by scavengers. I’d take a closer look once the minuscule skeleton had been cleaned, but I didn’t expect to learn very much. Sex characteristics only developed after puberty, so there would be no way of even knowing if the unborn child was a boy or girl.

It was a sad job sometimes, as Parekh had said.

After Ward and Whelan had gone, and Parekh had returned to St Jude’s to supervise the recovery of the remaining body, I was left on my own for the next grisly stage. X-rays can only reveal so much. I needed to examine the unknown young woman’s bones in greater detail, a task more related to butchery than to science. First, as much of the remaining soft tissue as possible would have to be removed using shears and scalpels. Then the skeleton itself would have to be systematically disarticulated, by cutting through the connective cartilage and tendons at the joints. Skull from spine, arms from torso, legs from pelvis: all had to be carefully separated one from the other. Then, once the body had been reduced to its component parts, any residual soft tissue had to be removed by macerating the bones in warm water and detergent.

It was a laborious process, but at least this time the task would be a little easier. The condition of the remains meant there wasn’t much soft tissue left to remove.

Especially on the second, tiny skeleton.

I’d turned down the mortuary assistant’s offer of help. I was accustomed to doing this alone, and by then the melancholy nature of what I had to do was starting to weigh on me. I was better left to my own thoughts, and my own company.

It was several hours before I’d done. I left the adult bones to simmer gently overnight: by morning they’d be clean enough to rinse and then reassemble for examination. The more delicate foetal skeleton I put to soak in plain water at room temperature. It would take longer, but there was precious little tissue left on its bones, and I didn’t want to risk damaging them.

Once I’d cleared everything away, there was nothing more I could do. I checked my watch and felt a heaviness when I saw how early it was. I’d no plans, and the prospect of an empty evening alone at the apartment held little appeal.

It wasn’t raining when I left the mortuary, but it started again as I walked back to my car. Fat, heavy drops began to spatter on the pavement, and within seconds it was coming down in earnest. I ran the rest of the way, ducking into my car as the heavens opened. Rain drummed on the roof as I brushed water from my face, obscuring everything outside the smeared glass of the windows. It was too heavy for the wipers to cope with, so I sat back to wait it out.

I was in no rush.

I switched on the radio while I waited. I caught the end of the six o’clock news, the segments that weren’t quite important enough to make the opening headlines. The rain drowned it out at first, but when I heard St Jude’s mentioned I turned up the volume. A local historian was being interviewed, trying hard not to sound too excited.

‘Of course, tragic as the, er, current events are, this is far from the first misfortune to strike St Jude’s,’ he said. ‘Several of the nuns who worked in what was then an isolation wing died during a typhoid outbreak in 1870, the very same year an unknown number of patients were also killed in a fire. Then in 1918 almost a quarter of the hospital staff, ah, succumbed to the Spanish flu outbreak. And during the Second World War a bomb fell on the east wing. Luckily, it didn’t explode, but it brought down a section of roof that killed a nurse. The story goes that she’s the Grey Lady.’

‘Grey Lady?’ the interviewer prompted on cue.

‘The hospital ghost.’ The historian couldn’t keep the smile from his voice. ‘Reportedly seen by patients and staff throughout the years, although actual eyewitness accounts are hard to find. Supposedly a harbinger of death, if you believe the legend.’

Oh, for God’s sake . I shook my head, irritated.

‘So it’s fair to say the hospital is cursed?’ the interviewer asked.

‘Well, I wouldn’t necessarily go that far. But it’s certainly had its share of bad luck. Which is ironic given that St Jude is the Patron Saint of lost causes, one of the original apostles who—’

I turned off the radio. It was a filler piece, making up for the fact that the police had released so few details about the deaths at the old hospital. But that sort of sensationalism wouldn’t help the investigation.

Still, it had reminded me of something. Reaching for the glove compartment, I took out the leaflet for the public meeting the protester had given me the day before. Below the old photograph of St Jude’s were details of when and where it was going to be held. I looked at my watch. I could just about make it.

It wasn’t as if I’d anything else to do.

The rain had eased by the time I reached St Jude’s, but the downpour had cleared the streets. There was no sign of the media scrum that had congregated outside the gates the day before. The entrance was now guarded by a single police officer, his yellow waterproofs shockingly bright in the gloom, while only a few diehard journalists remained. Most were dressed for the weather or huddled under golfing umbrellas, although one bedraggled woman who’d been caught out stood dripping and forlorn under a tree.

I drove on past the derelict hospital. The public meeting was being held in a church hall not far away. It didn’t start for another twenty minutes and I’d thought I’d be able to find it easily enough. But as I turned down yet another street of demolished houses and boarded-up shops, I was regretting not using the satnav. Taking what I hoped was the right turning, I found myself back on the main road that ran behind the abandoned hospital’s grounds. A solitary figure plodded along the deserted street. It was a woman, laden with carrier bags as she trudged through the downpour. She wore a heavy coat but no hood and walked with a slightly awkward gait, favouring her left side. Something about her seemed familiar but I’d gone past before I realized it was the woman I’d encountered at the ruined church the day before.

Remembering her final ‘Piss off’, I almost carried on, but then the decision was made for me. As I glanced back in the mirror I saw the bus behind me splash through a puddle at the pavement’s edge. The old woman was almost obscured by the sheet of dirty water it threw up, tottering sideways as it soaked her.

Cantankerous or not, I couldn’t leave her like that. I pulled over, earning an irate flash of the bus’s lights. It was possible its driver didn’t know what he’d done, but I couldn’t drive away now. The woman was standing where she’d been splashed, mouthing something at the disappearing bus. Then, hoisting her dripping bags, she set off walking again with slump-shouldered resignation.