Peter Turnbull - Deep Cover

‘Murder?’

‘Oh yes, it’s the linear pattern which suggests a blow to the skull with a linear weapon. . a golf club would do nicely. If she had fallen head first on to a hard surface you’d see a more radial pattern of fractures.’

‘I see.’

‘The blow seems to have landed right on top of her head, which suggests that she was in a sitting position when she was attacked. . possibly from behind, but that’s supposition. I just say what caused her to stop breathing, if I can. . and don’t ever ask me the time of death. . not ever. That’s the stuff of television shows. I’ll determine her approximate height in a moment, but she is not going to be a tall woman — about five foot or one hundred and fifty centimetres.’ He paused. ‘Ah. . the wrists have been fractured, and, yes, so have the ankles, as if she was disabled before being killed. The ankle and wrist fractures are peri-mortem. . and two of her ribs have been fractured on her right side.’

‘Battered to death.’

‘Well, yes, but the fractured ribs, ankles and wrists would not be an attempt to kill her; it’s more in the manner of being tortured before being murdered.’

‘Strewth!’

‘Strewth is right. The work of a very bad boy or girl. . this is a right bad ’un.’

‘All about the same time? I mean, occurred at the same time?’

‘All peri-mortem, yes.’ Shaftoe rested his stubby fingers on the edge of the stainless steel table. ‘But the fractures to the wrists and ankles seem to be deliberate, precise. The blow to the head has the sense of being a single strike at a can’t-miss target. So, the overall impression is that she was disabled prior to being murdered.’

Vicary groaned, then inhaled through his nose and received the strong smell of formaldehyde. ‘So this is not just a murder victim? It. . she is also a torture victim?’

‘Seems so, there is a story here, a right old yarn.’

‘Can you tell how old she was at her time of death?’

‘Yes, I’ll extract a tooth; that will give us her age at death to within twenty-four months, that is to say an age, plus or minus twelve months. . but she was an adult and she had given birth. You note the pelvic scarring? That is caused by breech delivery. . two or more children. I can say that she was over the age of twenty-five when she died. The skull plates have knitted together. There is no indication of rheumatics or arthritis. I accept that children can succumb to infantile arthritis and that is not a funny number, but, by and large, rheumatics and arthritis are indications of middle to old age and are not present.’ Shaftoe pointed into the skeleton’s mouth. ‘British dental work, you’ll be able to confirm her identity from her dentures if she was murdered less than eleven years ago. Dentists are obliged by law to keep all records for eleven years after the patient last attended their surgery. Some keep them for longer. I’ll detach the skull and send it to the forensic science people, they can use computer generated imagery to produce a likeness. . used to take a week to do that using plasticine. . now it takes seconds.’

‘Appreciated.’

‘Once that has been done, I’ll extract an upper molar and cut it into cross-section; from that I can determine her age within twenty-four months, as I said. Then I’ll detach the lower jaw and our forensic odontologist will be able to make a positive or a negative match to any dental records you can send us.’

‘Thank you.’

‘For your attention at the Yard, Mr Vicary?’

‘Yes, please. Seems I am the senior interest officer, for my sins.’

Shaftoe grinned, ‘For your sins. So that’s it: tortured, murdered, adult female who had given birth. Oh. . and probably Western European. . and too damn young to be in here — mind you, they always are.’

Vicary made his thanks and exited the pathology laboratory.

Moments later, when Shaftoe and Button were alone in the laboratory, save for the skeleton of the unidentified victim, Shaftoe said, ‘Billy. .’

‘Yes, sir. . I’m sorry, sir,’ the slightly built man whimpered.

‘Billy, nobody is ever going to call me a pull-yourself-together merchant but you really do need to start mustering some self-control. You can be seen trembling. . it doesn’t look good. When we have observing police officers we need to present as calm, competent, professional men, good at our jobs. . and don’t dismiss your job lightly, Billy. I could not do mine if you couldn’t do thine.’

‘Yes, sir. . thank you, sir. . but you see, sir, my sister’s cousin died last week and that sort of thing always brings it home, that one day I’ll be on that table, being cut open with this scalpel, sir. . by you, sir, or by one of the other gentlemen, sir. . or one of the ladies.’ Button looked pleadingly at Shaftoe.

‘I’ve told thee before, Billy,’ Shaftoe mustered patience, ‘it’s highly un likely that you’ll need to be given a post-mortem examination; you are unlikely to be caring for the instruments that will be used to cut you open. Only suspicious or unknown causes need apply for a place on that table, which is the minority of deaths in the UK.’

‘Yes, sir. .’ Button stammered. ‘Can I go now, sir?’

‘Yes. . yes. .’ Shaftoe peeled off the latex gloves and dropped them into the yellow bin in the corner of the laboratory, and once again he reflected that the wretched Button should have taken a job mowing the lawns in the parks in whichever London borough he lived. He then pondered, also as before, that he was better served by the Billy Buttons of this world than by the sort of man who is fascinated by morbidity and is seen to gleam at corpses, or by the necrophiliacs who are not unknown to smooth their way through the vetting process. Nonetheless, Shaftoe accepted that one very square peg in one very round hole did not begin to describe the extent of the mismatch between Billy Button and his job in the pathology laboratory of the London Hospital, EC1.

The woman flung the door open. Two men she did not recognize stood on the threshold. One man was tall, clean-shaven, slender, the other was equally tall, but heavily built with a striking black beard. Both were smartly dressed in plain clothes. She was startled and shut the door a little. The visitors were clearly unexpected. ‘Can I help you?’ she asked.

‘DC Ainsclough.’ The slender, clean-shaven one showed the woman his ID. ‘This is DC Brunnie.’

Brunnie also showed his ID.

‘Police! Is there something the matter?’ Behind her, Ainsclough and Brunnie saw a cluttered hallway and heard two children playing noisily. Ainsclough glanced along The Crest, Palmers Green, a neat terrace of two-storey houses with bay windows. No person was on the street, though he noticed a curtain twitch in the downstairs room of an adjacent house.

‘We’re here in connection with a Mr Dalkeith.’

‘He’s not here.’

‘Yes. .’ Ainsclough spoke softly. ‘We thought he might not be. . but does he live here?’

‘Yes.’

‘I see. What relationship is he to you, if I may ask?’

‘He’s my husband. . but he walked out. He left just before Christmas. Imagine that, two children and he walks out just before Christmas. I am Annie Dalkeith.’

‘Do you know where he is?’

‘He has a room in Kilburn. He told me to forward his mail and like a fool, I do so.’ Mrs Annie Dalkeith was a small, round woman with a mop of brown hair. She wore a large pullover and tracksuit bottoms. Her feet were encased in pink slippers.

‘Mrs Dalkeith — ’ Ainsclough glanced along the street — ‘we may have some bad news for you and this is a bit public. .’

Annie Dalkeith paled, and then stepped aside. ‘I haven’t tidied up; you take me as you find me.’