Simon Beckett - The Scent of Death

‘So it mummified first and then was wrapped in the tarp?’ Ward asked.

‘It must have. Then there’s those.’ I indicated a few dark, rice-like specks trapped in the folds of clothing. ‘There should be a lot more blowfly casings than this. If her body had been here all the time they’d be scattered all around it.’

Ward frowned. ‘Would there even be flies in here? It’s pitch black. How could they see?’

‘They wouldn’t have to, they’d have been guided by the smell.’ It was a common assumption that blowflies weren’t active in darkness, but it took more than a lack of light to deter the persistent insects. ‘These are probably bluebottle casings. If it’s too dark for them to fly they’ll walk to a dead body instead.’

‘There’s an image,’ Whelan said with a grimace.

Ward gave him an irritated glance. ‘Why are there flies if the body was mummified? Wouldn’t that put them off?’

‘Not if it decomposed first,’ I told her. ‘You can see from the staining on the clothes there was some initial decomposition before the body started to dry out and mummify. That would be more than enough.’

Blowflies could smell decomposing remains from up to a mile away, zeroing in on the scent to lay eggs in the eyes, nose and any other openings they could find. And while the lack of blood on the woman’s clothing suggested she didn’t have a major wound, even a small one would have attracted the flies’ attention. It would have taken longer to reach her in the loft, but they’d have begun laying eggs long before any rats came along. Once they’d hatched, the ravenous larvae would have fed on the dead tissue, enlarging the original wound and continuing the cycle of feeding and reproducing until the body had mummified. And then they’d abandoned it.

Ward was still frowning. ‘So you’re saying she was killed somewhere else and then brought here?’

‘Not necessarily.’ I glanced at Conrad to see if he wanted to answer. But the pathologist had gone back to poring over the remains. ‘Wherever her body was at first it had to be somewhere with pretty much identical conditions to this. Dry, a good airflow and hot enough for mummification to kick in quickly. That’s asking a lot.’

‘You think her body was up here all the time, just moved from another part of the loft?’ Ward asked.

‘Based on what I can see, I think it’s possible, yes.’

‘That doesn’t make any sense.’ Whelan sounded irritated. ‘What’s the point? If someone was worried her body might be found, why didn’t they take it somewhere else? And why wait until it was mummified before moving it anyway?’

‘I don’t know,’ I admitted. ‘But I still think you should search the rest of the loft for blowfly casings.’

‘OK, we’ll check.’ Ward was watching the pathologist. He was paying no attention to our conversation, leaning forward to examine the body’s folded hands. ‘Have you found something, Professor Conrad?’

‘There’s considerable trauma to the finger ends. Some of it could be from rodents, but I don’t think it all is.’

‘Can I take a look?’ I asked.

He edged aside so I could get closer. Given the body’s condition, it was hard to gauge what damage was post mortem and what wasn’t. Some of the desiccated fingers had been gnawed by small teeth, and the fingernails had begun to come loose during the initial decomposition. But the finger ends themselves appeared torn, while the nails themselves were broken and splintered, with one missing completely.

‘I don’t think we can blame rats. It looks like at least some of it could have been done while she was still alive,’ I said.

‘You mean she was tortured?’

‘You insist on asking questions we can’t possibly answer,’ Conrad said waspishly. His knees cracked as he pushed himself to his feet. ‘I’ve seen enough. Once the hands are bagged you can move the body to the mortuary. I think it’s safe to say—’

He broke off as a shadow darted overhead with a fast, flickering sound, like the pages of a book being riffled. The bat was gone in a second, but it startled the pathologist. He stumbled backwards, arms flailing as his foot went off the edge of the stepping plate. There was a dry crunch as it broke through the thin ceiling, layers of filthy insulation coming to life in a billow of dust as his leg plunged into them. Whelan managed to grab his wrist as he toppled backwards, and for a second I thought he had him.

Then, with a crash of breaking timber and plaster, Conrad and the whole section of loft beneath him disappeared.

‘Back! Everyone get back!’ Ward yelled, coughing.

The air was smoky with dust and sparkling glass fibres. Everyone around me was coughing, the paper face-masks inadequate against the miasma that now filled the air. My eyes felt full of grit as I looked down into the gaping hole that had opened up. One of the spotlights had toppled over when the plate fell and lay canted beside it, its beam shining into the darkness below.

‘That means you, too,’ Ward said from beside me. Moving past, she edged closer across the stepping plates towards the hole. Torn lengths of insulation hung down into it, snagged on the ends of splintered joists that jutted out like javelins.

‘Professor Conrad! Are you all right?’ she called.

There was no answer. This was a Victorian building, and the ceilings were high enough for the fall to break bones even without roof timbers and metal plates cascading down as well.

‘Don’t bloody stand there, get downstairs and see how he is!’ Ward snapped at the officers nearest the loft entrance.

‘The joists must be rotten,’ Whelan said as the officers hurried off. ‘Ma’am, you should...’

She nodded, reluctantly turning away from the hole. ‘OK, everybody out! Nice and steady, single file and don’t get too close together. Come on, move!’

Coughing, we made our way in an uneven line across the stepping plates. They bounced under the scuff and thump of feet, and I was relieved to reach the stepladder. After the dusty heat of the loft, climbing down into the cooler air below was like descending into cold water. Ward and Whelan were last out. She clambered quickly down the ladder, followed by her DI.

‘Get paramedics up here, now !’ she demanded, pushing through the crowd of overalls gathered around the stepladder. She looked around for the officers that she’d sent to help the pathologist. ‘Where the hell are Greggs and Patel?’

There was a commotion from further down the long hospital corridor. A young female officer with a torch emerged from the doorway to a ward, looking harassed.

‘Here, ma’am.’

Brushing aside a proffered bottle of water, Ward went over. ‘How is he?’

The young woman shook her head, blinking nervously. ‘Uh, I don’t know...’

‘You don’t know ? Oh, for... Come on, get out of the way!’

She unceremoniously barged past the young officer to go into the ward. ‘He’s not in there, ma’am.’

‘Then where the hell is he?’

‘We, uh, we can’t find him.’

‘What do you mean, you can’t find him? He can’t have bloody vanished!’

Ward turned as a torch beam appeared further along the unlit corridor. It bobbed towards us as the other police officer she’d sent down from the loft hurried to join us.

‘There are more corridors branching off from this,’ he said, breathlessly. ‘We looked in the ward we thought was underneath where he fell, and I’ve just been to the next one along, but he’s not in either of them.’

‘Well, he can’t have wandered off, not after a fall like that!’

‘No. I mean, he might have, but...’ The police officer hesitated, as though reluctant to go on. ‘I can’t see any hole in the ceiling.’