Simon Beckett - Whispers of the Dead

The question was what?

‘His head wasn’t tilted back far enough for gravity to have caused it,’ Tom said, voicing my own thoughts. ‘I’d say he’d almost certainly have to have been strangled, except for the amount of blood at the cabin.’

I nodded. Judging from what we’d seen, Terry Loomis had virtually bled out. The only problem was if that had happened, then he shouldn’t also have had pink teeth. And while it was possible that the wounds we’d seen on his body had been inflicted post mortem, if that were the case they wouldn’t have bled nearly so much. So while there was evidence for both strangulation and stabbing as the cause of death, it couldn’t be both. Either one ruled the other out.

So which was it?

‘Any sign of cuts to the bone?’ I asked. If there were, that might indicate a frenzied attack that would point to the wounds being the cause of death.

‘None that I’ve seen so far.’

‘What about the hyoid?’

‘Intact. No help there, either.’

If the slender bone that sits around the larynx had been broken, it would have meant that Loomis had almost certainly been strangled. But the opposite doesn’t apply. It’s a common misconception that strangulation always causes the hyoid to break. For all its delicate appearance it’s stronger than it looks, so the fact that Loomis’s was undamaged didn’t prove anything one way or the other.

Tom gave a tired smile. ‘Tricky one, isn’t it? Be interesting to see if the body from the casket has pink teeth as well. If it has, then my money’s on strangulation, cuts or not.’

‘We’ll have to wait till the skull’s been cleaned to know that,’ I said. ‘The teeth are pretty rotten, and by the look of it the victim was a heavy smoker. There’s too much nicotine staining to tell if there’s any other discoloration.’

‘Well, I suppose we’ll just have to—’

Before he could finish the door to the autopsy suite was flung open and Hicks barged in. His face held an alcohol flush, and even from across the room I could smell the sour odour of wine and onions on his breath. He’d clearly enjoyed a good lunch.

Ignoring me completely, he strode up to Tom, bald head gleaming under the fluorescent lights.

‘Who the hell do you think you are, Lieberman?’

‘If this is about Kyle, I’m sorry—’

‘Sorry? Sorry doesn’t begin to cover it. Use your own damn students, not one of my dieners!’ He made the unofficial term for morgue assistant sound like an insult. ‘Have you any idea of how much this could cost if Webster decides to sue?’

‘Right now I’m more worried about Kyle himself.’

‘Pity you didn’t think of that before. You better pray that needle wasn’t infected, because if it was I swear this is going to be on your head!’

Tom looked down. He didn’t seem to have either the will or the energy to argue.

‘It already is.’

Hicks was about to launch into another attack when he became aware of me watching. He glared at me angrily.

‘Got something to say?’

I knew Tom wouldn’t thank me for interfering. Bite your tongue. Don’t say anything.

‘You’ve got gravy on your tie,’ I said, before I could stop myself.

His eyes narrowed. Until then I think I’d barely registered with him, other than as an extension of Tom. Now I knew I’d put myself in his sights as well, but I didn’t care. The Hickses of this world look for excuses to be outraged. Sometimes it’s easier just to let them get on with it.

He nodded thoughtfully, as though promising something to himself. ‘This isn’t over, Lieberman,’ he said, giving Tom a final glare before going out.

Tom waited until the door had shut behind him. ‘David…’ He sighed.

‘I know, I’m sorry.’

He gave a chuckle. ‘Actually, I think it was tomato soup. But in future—’

He broke off with a gasp, his hand going to his chest. I started towards him but he waved me away.

‘I’m all right.’

But it was obvious he wasn’t. Fumbling off his gloves, he took a small pill case from his pocket and slipped a small tablet under his tongue. After a moment the tension began to go out of him.

‘Nitroglycerin?’ I asked.

Tom nodded, his breathing gradually becoming less strained. It was a standard treatment for angina, dilating the blood vessels to allow blood to flow more easily to the heart. His colour was already better, but under the harsh lights of the morgue he looked exhausted as he put the pills away.

‘OK, where were we?’

‘You were just about to go home,’ I told him.

‘No need. I’m fine now.’

I just looked at him.

‘You’re as bad as Mary,’ he muttered. ‘All right. I’ll just clear up…’

‘I can do it. Go on home. This’ll still be here tomorrow.’

It was a sign of how exhausted he was that he didn’t argue. I felt a pang of concern as I watched him go out. He looked stooped and frail, but it had been a stressful day. He’ll be better after some food and a good night’s sleep.

I almost made myself believe it.

There wasn’t much clearing away to be done in Tom’s autopsy suite. After I’d finished I went back to my own, where I’d been working on the remains from the exhumed casket. I wanted to finish denuding them of soft tissue and get them into detergent overnight, but as I was about to start I was overcome by a jaw-cracking yawn. I’d not realized till then how tired I was myself. The wall clock said it was after seven, and I’d been on the go since before dawn.

Another hour. You can manage that. I turned to the remains on the examination table. Tissue samples had been sent off to the lab to provide a more accurate time since death, but I didn’t need the results of the VFA and amino acid analysis to know that something here didn’t add up.

Two bodies, both more decomposed than they should be. There was a pattern there, I’d agree with Irving about that much. Just not one I could make any sense of. The bright overhead light shone dully on the scratched aluminium of the table as I picked up the scalpel. Partially stripped of its flesh, the body lying in front of me resembled a badly carved joint. I bent to start work, and as I did something registered at the edge of my vision.

Something was snagged in the ear cavity.

It was a brown half-oval, no bigger than a grain of rice. Setting down the scalpel, I picked up a pair of small forceps and gently teased it free from the whorl of cartilaginous tissue. I raised it up to examine it, my surprise growing as I saw what it was. What on earth…?

It took me a few seconds to realize that the racing in my chest was excitement.

I started searching round for a specimen jar, and gave a start when there was a rap on the door. I looked round as Paul entered.

‘Not disturbing you, am I?’

‘Not at all’.

He came over and looked down at the body, eyes professionally assessing its tissue-stripped form. He’d have seen worse, just as I had. Sometimes it’s only when you see someone else’s reaction— or lack of it—that you realize how we become accustomed to even the most grotesque sights.

‘I just saw Tom. He said you were still working, so I thought I’d see how you were getting on.’

‘Still behind schedule. You don’t happen to know where the specimen jars are, do you?’

‘Sure.’ He went to a cupboard. ‘Tom wasn’t looking so good. Was he OK?’

I wasn’t sure how much to say, unsure if Paul knew about Tom’s condition. But he must have read my hesitation.

‘Don’t worry, I know about the angina. Did he have another attack?’

‘Not a bad one, but I persuaded him to go home,’ I said, relieved I didn’t have to pretend.

‘I’m glad he pays attention to someone. Usually you can’t beat him away with a stick.’ Paul handed me a specimen jar. ‘What’s that?’