Simon Beckett: Whispers of the Dead

The cabin door opened and Jacobsen entered. Like Gardner she was wearing overshoes and gloves, but she managed to make even those look almost elegant. She wasn’t wearing a mask, and her face was pale as she went to stand by the older agent.

‘So, unless the killer booked the place in his own name and considerately left his ID behind, the likelihood is that this is either Loomis, or some other male we don’t know about,’ Tom said.

‘That’s about it,’ Gardner said. He broke off as another agent appeared in the doorway.

‘Sir, there’s someone asking to see you.’

‘I’ll be right back,’ Gardner said to Tom, and went outside.

Jacobsen remained in the cabin. Her face was still pale, but she folded her arms tightly in front of her as though restraining any weakness.

‘How d’you know it’s male?’ she asked. Her eyes flicked automatically to the seething activity around the corpse’s groin, but she quickly averted them again. ‘I can’t see anything to say either way.’

Her accent wasn’t as strong as some I’d heard, but it was pronounced enough to mark her as local. I looked at Tom, but he was engrossed with the corpse. Or at least pretending to be.

‘Well, apart from the size—’ I began.

‘Not all women are small.’

‘No, but not many are as tall as this. And even a big woman would have a more delicate bone structure, especially the cranium. That’s—’

‘I know what a cranium is.’

God, but she was spiky. ‘I was about to say that’s usually a good indication of gender,’ I finished.

Her chin came up, stubbornly, but she made no other comment. Tom straightened from where he’d been examining the gaping mouth.

‘David, take a look at this.’

He moved aside as I went over. Much of the soft tissue had gone from the face; eyes and nasal cavity were heaving with maggots. The teeth were almost fully exposed, and where the gums had been the yellow-white of the dentine had a definite reddish hue.

‘Pink teeth,’ I commented.

‘Ever come across them before?’ Tom asked.

‘Once or twice.’ But not often. And not in a situation like this.

Jacobsen had been listening. ‘Pink teeth?’

‘It’s caused by haemoglobin from the blood being forced into the dentine,’ I told her. ‘Gives the teeth a pinkish look under the enamel. You sometimes find it in drowning victims who’ve been in the water for some time, because they tend to float head down.’

‘Somehow I don’t think we’re dealing with a drowning here,’ Gardner said, clumping back into the cabin.

He had another man with him. The newcomer also wore overshoes and gloves but didn’t strike me as either a police officer or a TBI agent. He was in his mid-forties, not plump exactly, but with a sleek, well-fed look about him. He wore chinos and a lightweight suede jacket over a pale blue shirt, and the well-fleshed cheeks were covered with a stubble that stopped just short of being a beard.

But the apparently casual appearance was a little too contrived, as though he’d styled himself on the chiselled models from magazine advertisements. The clothes were too well cut and expensive, the shirt open by one button too many. And the stubble, like the hair, was slightly too uniform to be anything other than carefully groomed.

He exuded self-assurance as he walked into the cabin. His half-smile never wavered as he took in the body tied to the table.

Gardner had dispensed with his mask, perhaps out of deference to the newcomer, who wasn’t wearing one either. ‘Professor Irving, I don’t think you’ve met Tom Lieberman, have you?’

The newcomer turned his smile on to Tom. ‘No, I’m afraid our paths haven’t crossed. You’ll have to excuse me if I don’t shake hands,’ he said, theatrically showing us his gloves.

‘Professor Irving’s a criminal personality profiler who’s worked with the TBI on several investigations,’ Gardner explained. ‘We wanted to get a psychological perspective on this.’

Irving gave a self-deprecating grin. ‘Actually, I prefer to call myself a “behaviouralist.” But I’m not going to quibble about titles.’

You just have done. I told myself not to take my mood out on him.

Tom’s smile was blandness itself, but I thought I detected a coolness about it. ‘Pleased to meet you, Professor Irving. This is my friend and colleague, Dr Hunter,’ he added, making up for Gardner’s omission.

The nod Irving sent my way was polite enough, but it was obvious I didn’t register on his radar. His attention was already moving to Jacobsen, his smile widening.

‘I don’t think I caught your name?’

‘Diane Jacobsen.’ She seemed almost flustered, the cool she’d displayed so far in danger of slipping as she stepped forward. ‘It’s a pleasure to meet you, Professor Irving. I’ve read a lot of your work.’

Irving’s smile broadened even further. I couldn’t help but notice how unnaturally white and even his teeth were.

‘I trust it met with your approval. And, please, call me Alex.’

‘Diane majored in psychology before she joined the TBI,’ Gardner put in.

The profiler’s eyebrows rose. ‘Really? Then I’ll have to be extra careful not to slip up.’ He didn’t actually pat her on the head, but he might as well have. An expression of distaste replaced his smile as he considered the body. ‘Seen better days, hasn’t it? Can I have a little more of that menthol, please?’

The request wasn’t addressed to anyone in particular. After a moment one of the forensic team grudgingly went out to get it. Steepling his fingers, Irving listened without comment as Gardner briefed him. When the agent returned, the profiler accepted the menthol without acknowledgement, dabbing a neat smear on his top lip before holding out the jar for her to take.

She looked down at the proffered jar before taking it. ‘Any time.’

If Irving was aware of the sarcasm he gave no sign. Tom shot me an amused look as he took another specimen jar from the bag and turned back to the body.

‘I’d rather you wait till I’m done, please.’

Irving spoke without looking at him, as though taking for granted that everyone there would naturally defer to his wishes. I saw annoyance flash in Tom’s eyes, and for a moment I thought he was going to respond. But before he could a sudden spasm crossed his face. It was gone so quickly I might have imagined it, except for the pallor it left behind.

‘Think I’ll get some fresh air. Too damn hot in here.’

He looked unsteady as he headed for the door. I started to go after him but he stopped me with a shake of his head.

‘No need for you to come. You can start taking photographs once Professor Irving’s finished. I’m just going to get some water.’

‘There’s iced bottles in a cooler by the tables,’ Gardner told him.

I felt concerned as I watched him go, but it was clear Tom didn’t want to make a fuss. No one else seemed to have noticed anything was wrong. He’d been facing away from everyone except Irving and me, and the profiler was oblivious anyway. He stood with his hand on his chin as Gardner resumed his briefing, staring intently at the dead man on the table. When the TBI agent had finished he didn’t move or speak, his pose one of deep contemplation. Pose being the operative word. I told myself not to be uncharitable.

‘You realize it’s a serial, of course?’ he said, stirring at last.

Gardner looked pained. ‘We don’t know that for sure.’

Irving’s smile was condescending. ‘Oh, I think we do. Look at the way the body’s been arranged. It’s been put on display for us to find. Stripped, bound, and in all probability tortured. And then left face up. There’s no sign of any shame or regret, no attempt to cover the victim’s eyes or turn him face down. This whole thing shouts of calculation and enjoyment. He was pleased with what he’d done, that’s why he wanted you to see it.’