Steven Dunne - Deity

‘CSF?’

‘Cerebrospinal fluid,’ chipped in Petty, moving to the far side of the cadaver.

‘Sounds painful.’

‘Not if you’re already dead,’ she said, unsure if Brook was being serious. She pointed to the incisions on the upper lip. ‘The tool was pushed into the nostrils, causing these cuts as well as invisible scarring inside the nostrils. It would’ve been pushed up the nose, and forced through the cartilage and finally into the brain propelled by a heavy object such as a hammer. .’

Brook grimaced and looked around for Noble. He spotted him upstairs in the gallery holding two plastic cups and smoking a cigarette. Despite the reinforced glass screen between the gallery and the lab, Brook felt sure he could smell tobacco smoke.

‘. . and cut into the brain. Then the detached pieces must have been pulled back down through the nose — hence the hook.’

‘Nice. And you don’t know why, Doctors?’

Petty shrugged. ‘If I were starting out in anatomy back in the Dark Ages, I might puncture the brain like this to see what happened. Otherwise, your guess is as good as mine.’

‘And when you say a tool was fashioned, does that mean that such a tool doesn’t exist?’ asked Brook.

‘Why would it?’ said Habib. ‘We don’t need to get to the brain through the nose these days.’

‘These days? So such a tool may once have been used?’

Dr Petty nodded. ‘Hundreds of years ago. Longer even. Ancient anatomy isn’t my field. But if someone wanted to spend hours removing the brain without disturbing the skull, they’d certainly have to create one.’ She paused then smiled at him. ‘I’ll be happy to look into it,’ she added.

Brook nodded his thanks and left.

The front gate clattered outside and Becky jumped out of bed, pulling aside the shade on her bedroom window. The postman strode towards the house with a bundle of letters. This was it. She strained to listen and heard her father jump up to collect the mail. She held her breath and continued to listen for any reaction and heard first voices, then footsteps scuffling hurriedly up the stairs. She jumped back into bed. When the knock came on her bedroom door, she pulled the duvet back over her head. Another knock and a muffled conversation followed. Finally the handle turned and her father stuck his head into the gap.

‘Becks,’ he said softly.

Even without a word said, Becky knew her stepmother, Christy, was with him because the stench of stale tobacco hung in the still air — it followed her everywhere like her own toxic cloud.

Becky tried to affect the noise of sleep and her father made to close the door but his wife’s voice stayed his hand. ‘It’s ten o’clock, for Christ’s sake. Wake her up. It’s important.’ Her father must have hesitated. ‘I’m telling you, Fred. She should have been up hours ago.’

‘She’s tired,’ he whispered.

‘From what?’ replied Christy, raising her voice. ‘Opening all the gifts you give her? You spoil that girl, Fred, now wake her up.’

‘I’m awake,’ said Becky from under the duvet. She sat up, flinging the duvet from her head and glaring at her stepmother with undisguised hatred. ‘Happy now? Not that I could sleep with that stale fag ash polluting the air,’ she added.

‘Watch your tongue in my house, lady,’ retorted Christy.

‘ Your house?’ snarled Becky, an ugly frown distorting her doll-like features. ‘Since when-’

‘Stop it, you two.’ Her father laughed in the light-hearted manner he affected to bridge the gulf between the two women in his life. He came and sat beside his daughter on the bed. He had an envelope in his hand. He placed it on the bed in front of her, looked expectantly into her eyes then lifted his hand to stroke her hair. ‘Aren’t you excited, darling? It’s finally here.’

Becky flicked a glance towards her stepmother’s sour gaze then smiled warmly at her father. She kissed his neck and played with the curl of hair around his ear to further stick it to Christy. ‘Course I’m excited, Dad.’

‘Open it then, princess. Put us out of our misery.’

Becky thumbed the envelope open and unfolded the letter. Without emotion she handed the letter to her father who read greedily. He stopped, took a deep breath and looked at his daughter.

‘Are you going to read it, or what?’ asked Christy.

Fred Blake smiled. ‘ Dear Becky, I am pleased to tell you that we are able to offer you a place at our modelling agency, and would be grateful if you could contact us to arrange a meeting as soon as possible .

‘You did it, princess!’ he shouted. ‘You did it!’ He flung his arms around his daughter and she buried her head in his chest, unable to hold back a tear. ‘You’re going to be famous, Becks. Can you believe it? My daughter, a fashion model. Rebecca Blake, Supermodel,’ he announced, with a portentous wave of the arm. ‘You’ll be on the telly, maybe in films. You’ll meet famous people. You’ll go to New York, Paris, Rome. .’

‘I’ll be based in London, Dad,’ Becky reminded him, grinning.

‘Of course.’ He laughed.

‘But only after I pass my A-levels.’

He grinned again. ‘Beautiful and smart. You’ll knock ’em dead, honey.’

Becky held out her arms for another hug then sneered at her stepmother over his shoulder. The answering smile was sullen.

‘Where are all your photos, love?’ asked her dad, noticing the bare walls suddenly. ‘All your portraits?’

‘I thought I’d pack them away for the move to London,’ Becky replied after a brief pause.

Her father hesitated then said excitedly, ‘You’re right. We’d better get organised; you’re going to need a whole new wardrobe.’

‘So I guess we can kiss goodbye to a holiday this year,’ observed Christy, turning for the door.

‘Book your holiday,’ Becky spat at her. ‘The big fashion houses throw clothes at young models for nothing. It’s free advertising,’ she explained to her father.

‘Free advertising,’ her father echoed for the benefit of his wife. ‘Hear that, Christy?’ He gazed back, damp-eyed, at the apple of his eye. ‘Your mum would’ve been so proud.’

Becky returned her head to her father’s neck but, unable to keep her eyes from the door, looked up in time to see her stepmother stalking away. She grinned maliciously towards her retreating back.

Brook tapped on the window of the small hatch with his warrant card. The orderly looked up from his tabloid and gave Brook and Noble a steely glare before reluctantly dragging himself to his feet. He was small but powerfully built, despite advanced middle age, and was dressed in white trousers and snug-fitting, white T-shirt which matched his cropped hair and showed off hard, gym-pumped biceps. He barely glanced at them as he slid open the small window.

‘What can I do for you, Officers?’

Brook spotted the blue ink of prison on the orderly’s gnarled forearms and neck. ‘Detective Inspector Brook, Detective Sergeant Noble,’ he said, enunciating their ranks a little more distinctly than usual. ‘Is your supervisor in?’ Brook peered down at his ID badge. ‘Danny.’

‘Just popped out,’ grinned the orderly, exposing a rack of teeth like an elephant’s ribcage. ‘I’m in charge.’

Brook pulled out the SOCO photograph of the dead man and held it up to Danny’s cold blue eyes. ‘Do you recognise this man? Social Services think it’s possible he stayed here recently.’

The orderly looked briefly before shaking his head. ‘Can’t say I recognise him.’ He glanced back up at Brook. ‘You’ve tried Social Services then.’

‘And the Job Centre. Without a name they’re completely in the dark. They suggested we try here and the outreach centres.’