Simon Beckett - The Chemistry of Death

Until now.

I went to my desk and opened the drawer. I took out the photographs, keeping them face down. I would look, then give them back to Mackenzie. I still wasn't committing to anything, I rationalized, and turned them over.

I hadn't known how I'd feel, but what I hadn't banked on was the familiarity of it all. Not so much because of what the images showed – God knows that was shocking enough. But the fact of looking at them was like taking a step back in time. Without even realizing it, I began studying them for what they might tell me.

There were six photographs, taken from different angles and viewpoints. I leafed through them quickly, then went back to the start and looked at each one again in more detail. The body was naked and lying face down, arms stretched out above it as though it were in the act of taking a dive into the long stalks of marsh grass. It was impossible to tell its sex from the photographs. The darkened skin hung off the body like badly fitting leather, but that wasn't what caught the eye. Sam had been right. He'd said that the body had wings, and so it had. Two deep cuts had been sliced into the flesh either side of the spine.

Thrust into them, giving the body the look of a fallen, decaying angel, were white swan wings.

Set against the decaying skin, the effect was shockingly obscene. I looked at them for a while longer, then studied the body itself. Maggots spilled like rice from the wounds. Not just the two large ones on the shoulder blades but from numerous smaller gashes on the back, arms and legs. The decomposition was well advanced. Heat and humidity would have accelerated the process, and animals and insects speed it further. But each factor would have its own story to tell, each one helping to provide a timetable of how long it had lain there.

The last three photographs were of the body after it had been turned over. There were the same small cuts on the body and limbs, and the face was a shapeless mess of splintered bone. Below it the exposed cartilage of the throat, harder and slower to decompose than the softer tissue that had covered it, gaped wide where it had been slashed open. I thought about Bess, Sally's Border collie. The dog's throat had also been cut. I went through the photographs one more time. When I found myself looking for anything recognizable about the body, I put the photographs down. I was still sitting there when a rap sounded on the door.

It was Henry. 'Janice told me the police had been. Locals been buggering the livestock again?'

'It was just about yesterday.'

'Ah.' He sobered. 'Any problem?'

'Not really.'

Which wasn't really the truth. I felt uncomfortable keeping anything from Henry, but I hadn't gone into all the details about my background. While he knew I'd been an anthropologist, it was a broad enough field to cover any number of sins. The forensic aspect of my work, and my involvement in police investigations, I'd kept to myself. It hadn't been something I'd wanted to talk about.

It still wasn't.

His eyes went to the photographs lying on the desk. He was too far away to make out any detail, but I felt as though I'd been caught out, all the same. He raised his eyebrows as I put them back in the envelope.

'Can we talk about it later?' I said.

'Of course. I didn't mean to pry.'

'You weren't. It's just… there are a few things I need to think about right now.'

'Are you OK? You seem a little… preoccupied.'

'No, I'm fine.'

He nodded, but the look of concern didn't fade. 'How about taking the dinghy out some time? Bit of exercise will do us both good.'

Although he needed help getting in and out of the boat, Henry's disability didn't prevent him from rowing or sailing once he was on board. 'You're on. But give me a few days.'

I could tell he wanted to ask more, but thought better of it. He wheeled himself back to the door. 'Just say the word. You know where I am.'

When he'd gone I sat back in the chair and closed my eyes. I didn't want this. But then, nobody did. Least of all the dead woman. I thought about the pictures I'd just seen, and realized that, like her, I didn't have a choice.

Mackenzie had left his card with the photographs. But I couldn't reach him on either his office number or mobile. I left messages to call me on both and hung up. I couldn't say I felt better for reaching a decision, but some of the weight seemed to lift from me.

After that, there were the morning's visits to do. Only two, and neither was serious; a child with mumps, and a bedridden elderly man who was refusing to eat. By the time I'd finished it was lunchtime. I was on my way back, debating whether to go home or to the pub, when my phone rang.

I grabbed it, but it was only Janice to tell me that the school had called. They were worried about Sam Yates, and could I go to see him? I said I would. I was glad to do something constructive while I waited for Mackenzie to call.

Back in Manham, the presence of police officers on the streets was a sobering reminder of what had happened. Their uniforms were a stark contrast to the gaiety of the flowers brightening the churchyard and green, and there was a sense of muted but unmistakable excitement about the village. But the school, at least, seemed normal. Although the older children had to travel five miles to the nearest comprehensive, Manham still had its own small primary school. A former chapel, its playground was colour-fully noisy in the bright sunshine. This was the last week of term before the long summer holiday, and the knowledge seemed to give an extra edge to the usual lunchtime hysteria. A little girl bounced off my legs as she dodged another who was chasing her. Giggling, they ran off, so preoccupied in their game that they barely noticed my presence.

I felt the familiar hollowness as I went into the school office. Betty, the secretary, gave me a bright smile as I knocked on the open door.

'Hello, there. You here to see Sam?'

She was a tiny, warm-faced woman who'd lived in the village all her life. Never married, she lived with her brother and treated the schoolchildren as her extended family.

'How is he?' I asked. She wrinkled her nose.

'Bit upset. He's next door in the sick bay. Just go straight in.'

'Sick bay' was a rather grand title for what was in effect a small room with a sink, a couch and a first-aid cabinet. Sam was sitting on the couch, head down and feet dangling. He looked peaky and close to tears.

A young woman was sitting next to him, talking in soothing tones as she showed him a book. She broke off, looking relieved when I walked in.

'Hi, I'm Dr Hunter,' I said to her, then gave the boy a smile. 'How you doing, Sam?'

'He's a bit tired,' the young woman answered for him. 'Apparently he had bad dreams last night. Didn't you, Sam?'

She sounded matter-of-fact, calm without seeming condescending. I guessed she was his teacher, but I hadn't seen her before and her accent was too slight for her to be local. Sam had dropped his chin onto his chest. I squatted down so I was on his eye level.

'That right, Sam? What sort of nightmares?' After seeing the photographs, I could guess. He kept his head down, saying nothing. 'OK, let's take a look at you.'

I didn't expect there to be anything physically wrong with him, and there wasn't. Temperature a little high, perhaps, but that was all. I ruffled his hair as I stood up.

'Strong as an ox. Will you be OK while I have a word with your teacher?'

'No!' he said, panicked.

She gave him a reassuring smile. 'It's all right, we'll be right outside. I'll even leave the door open, and then I'll come right back.

She gave him the book. After a second he took it, sullenly. I followed her into the corridor. She left the door ajar, as promised, but stood far enough away so we were out of earshot.