Peter Turnbull: Deep Cover

Brunnie glanced out of the window at the overcast sky and replied, ‘Not really.’

‘Poor you.’

Brunnie dropped his pen on to the statistic forms he was completing. ‘Poor, poor me but anything is better than monthly stats.’

‘I’m impressed; I haven’t looked at my December stats yet.’

‘These are October’s.’ Brunnie stood and reached for his coat. ‘Nothing to be impressed about, I assure you.’

‘Oh, in that case. .’

‘“Oh” is right. Vicary is not best pleased, nor is he overly impressed with little me, but he’s busy with a skeleton right now, or so I hear. So yes, Palmers Green it is.’

‘Yes, he won’t be back today. I need to ID a stiff, nothing suspicious, just an ID to make, then we can pass the parcel to the family, or the coroner.’

Clive Sherwin looked around him. Never really happy in the country, he felt even less comfortable than usual. The winter-tilled fields beyond the meadow seemed unwelcoming, the leafless trees in the nearby wood at that moment were home to cawing rooks, as the first sliver of dawn cracked the night sky. The three young women had hoods over their heads and each was trembling violently. Sherwin could not tell whether they were shivering with fear, or shivering because of the cold, all three being ill-clad for the weather. But, probably, he thought, it was because of both. They stood at the bottom of a meadow and to their right was a line of cherry trees. The furthest of the trees were tall and established, the nearest of the trees were little more than saplings. There were ten in all. In spring they would develop a blossom of brilliant pink, thus heralding the approach of summer.

‘Alright, girls,’ the hard-faced woman said quietly, ‘take off the hoods.’

The three young women slowly and reluctantly tugged the hoods from their heads. One of the women screamed, all stepped backwards and turned their heads away.

‘Scream all you like,’ the woman said, ‘there’s no one to hear you. But look in the hole. Look!’

Clive Sherwin stood a short distance away holding the spade and with a sapling of flowering cherry at his feet. He knew what was in the hole, and he knew what was going to be planted over it, once he had filled it in.

‘She was lucky.’ The hard-faced woman pointed to the hole. ‘She was banged on the head. She was dead when she was put in, on account of her being only fifteen or sixteen, but most times we truss ’em up and bury them alive. Isn’t that right, Clive?’

Sherwin nodded but remained silent.

‘Most of the time they’re alive and know what’s happening to them. But we was merciful with her, so we was. Trouble with her, she was skimming. That is naughty. That is well out of order. We picked her up where we found you, on the Embankment. . a runaway. . like you, from up North she was; gave her a roof, gave her food, sent her out to King’s Cross to earn her keep. She earned alright, but she didn’t hand it all in, kept some dosh for herself. Heard we found out and tried to scarper. . but you can’t. . you can’t run for ever, not from the firm. We got eyes on every street corner in the smoke, like twenty-four seven. This is what happens if you skim and run. So learn. See all those trees? There’s a body under every one of them. And this is the new orchard. The old orchard got full up. So don’t be naughty. Don’t get too left field. Don’t get out of order. Right, Clive, fill it in.’

Sherwin spaded the soil back into the hole and then planted the cherry tree shrub on top.

‘On with your hoods.’ The woman barked the order. ‘We’ll get you back to your drum, you’ll be working tonight. You’ll need rest and a little food.’

John Shaftoe pulled the anglepoise arm that was bolted into the ceiling above the dissecting table downwards, until the microphone at the end of the arm was level with his mouth. He glanced at Vicary who stood, as protocol dictated, at the edge of the post-mortem laboratory, observing for the police, and was to approach the dissecting table only when invited. He was silent and quite still, and dressed, as required, in green disposable coveralls, with a matching hat and slippers.

‘It’s always damn same.’ Shaftoe adjusted the microphone. Shaftoe spoke with a distinct Yorkshire accent and Vicary noticed, once again, how he omitted the definite article in keeping with the speech pattern of his roots. He would never invite any observing police officer to the dissecting table to view something of forensic significance by saying, ‘Come to the table and look at this’, it would rather be: ‘Come to table’. ‘It’s Dykk,’ Shaftoe continued, ‘and cursed am I to work under him and he took dislike to me from day one. Have you ever met him?’

‘Yes,’ Vicary replied softly, though his voice carried easily through the hard-surfaced pathology laboratory, ‘once or twice. Civilized, I have found, though a little aloof at times.’

‘Aloof!’ Shaftoe snorted. ‘Aloof, that’s the understatement of year, Home Counties toff who thinks that folk what live north of Watford are all Neanderthals. Well, he lives up to his name. A complete dick and one of his little games is to push the microphone up out of my reach, well, as near as he can when he’s finished his body butchering, but he’s a professor and I am not. He’s a southerner and I am not.’ He paused and glared at Button, his mortuary assistant, who just then allowed instruments to clatter needlessly, noisily on to the trolley, and he held the pause as if to say, ‘And I’ve got Button for my assistant and he has not.’

‘Sorry, Mr Shaftoe, sir.’ Billy Button turned to Shaftoe and offered his apology in a weak and whiny voice, and then turned away again and began to place the instruments neatly on the surface of the trolley.

Shaftoe looked at Vicary and raised his eyebrows. Vicary shrugged his shoulders and smiled in mute response.

‘Can you give this a reference number please, Cynthia,’ Shaftoe spoke into the microphone, clearly for the hearing of an audio typist who would shortly be typing up the notes on the post-mortem, ‘and also today’s date? The body is fully skeletonized and is of the female sex, and Northern European or possibly Asian in terms of racial extraction.’ He turned to Vicary. ‘Have to be careful, those two races have similar skeletons. In general, Asians are more finely boned, but nonetheless, each can be mistaken for the other.’ He returned to the corpse. ‘The rich soils of Hampstead saw to that. The damp soil, full of micro-organisms, all feasting on the flesh, you see, and complete skeletonization in those conditions could be achieved within ten years, but strangely not disturbed by the foxes and badgers which live on the Heath. Mind you, the burial site was near a footpath, which, in turn, was quite near Spaniards Road; probably too much street lighting and traffic noise to make them feel safe, they’d be happier deeper in the Heath.’

Vicary nodded. ‘Yes, that would probably explain it. I confess, it’s not at all my area of expertise but I did wonder why the grave hadn’t been disturbed by scavengers, especially when I saw how shallow it was.’

‘Indeed. . well. . skeletons do not tell us as many tales as a fresh corpse would, but they tell us sufficient. . and this lady died of a fractured skull.’ Shaftoe ran his latex encased fingertips over the surface of the deceased’s skull. ‘Of note is a single massive blow to the top of the head which is linear in form. Care to take a look?’

Vicary stepped forward and approached the dissecting table. He examined the top of the skull and noted the linear depression with minor fractures leading from it.

‘That,’ Shaftoe said with a restrained, matter-of-fact tone, ‘is what’s called making sure. The felon was making sure alright, God in heaven was he making sure. Or she. You don’t survive a blow like that, not on this planet anyway.’