Simon Beckett - The Chemistry of Death

He'd studied me. 'Everything all right?'

'Fine. It's just… complicated.'

'Things generally are. This time last week no-one expected we'd have bloody journalists crawling all over the place and police asking everybody questions. Makes you wonder where it's all going to end.'

He'd made an effort to brighten. 'OK. Come for Sunday lunch. I fancy cooking, and I've got a nice Bordeaux I've been looking for an excuse to open. Talking's always easier on a full stomach.'

Grateful to be able to put that much off for a little longer, at least, I'd agreed.

The traffic streamed past as Mackenzie came to a roundabout. The interior of the car smelled of menthol air freshener and his aftershave. It was as neat as if it had been newly valeted. Outside the roads and streets were all confusion and noise. It seemed familiar and strange at the same time. I tried to remember when I'd last been in a city, and realized with a shock that this was the first time I had been outside Manham since the rainy afternoon when I'd arrived. I felt warring emotions, torn between wishing I'd stayed there and amazement that I had buried myself away for so long.

Life outside had gone on, regardless.

I watched a crowd of schoolchildren jostling each other as a teacher tried for order outside school gates. People hurried by, intent on their own affairs. All of them with their own lives, untouched by mine. Or each other's.

'The wire from the snares is the same type as was used to bring down Lyn Metcalf,' Mackenzie said, bringing me back to the here and now. 'And that was used to tie the bird to the stone. Don't know if it's from the same batch, but I think it's a safe assumption.'

'What do you make of that? The bird, I mean.'

'Not sure yet. Could have been to panic her. Could be some sort of statement or signature.'

'Like the wings found on Sally Palmer's body?'

'It's possible. We heard back from the ornithologist about those, by the way. Mute swan. Common enough round here, 'specially this time of year.'

'You think there's a connection between the swan's wings and the mallard?'

'I can't believe it's a coincidence, if that's what you mean. Perhaps he's just got a thing against birds.' He overtook a slow-moving van. 'We've got psychologists on it now, to give us some idea what sort of mindset we're dealing with. And every other type of specialist you'd care to think of, in case it's part of some pagan ritual, or Satanism. Some bollocks like that.'

'But you don't think so?'

He didn't answer at first, clearly debating how much to say. 'No, I don't,' he said at last. The wings on Palmer's body got everybody all excited. There was talk about the killer using religious or classical symbolism, everything from angels to God knows what. Now, though, I'm not so sure. If the mallard had been sacrificed or mutilated, then perhaps. But just tied up with wire? No, I think our boy just likes hurting things. Showing off, if you like.'

'Like with the traps.'

'Like with the traps. Fair enough, it slows us up. We can't just concentrate on the search when we've got to worry about what else he might have left behind. But why bother? Anybody sussed enough to go to all this trouble will know how to cover their tracks. Instead, we've got the bird left for us to find, the stakes used to trip his victim left in place, and now all this. He's either not worried about us finding anything, or he's just, I don't know…'

'Marking his territory?' I offered.

'Something like that. Showing us he's in charge. Doesn't even take that much effort. He just leaves a few traps dotted around at strategic points, then stands back to watch the fun.'

I was quiet for a while, thinking about what Mackenzie had said. 'Couldn't it be more than that?'

'How do you mean?'

'He's made the woods and marshes a no-go area. People are going to be scared to go for a walk in case they step in one of his traps.'

He was frowning. 'So?'

'So perhaps he doesn't just like hurting things. Perhaps he likes frightening them as well.'

Mackenzie stared thoughtfully through the windscreen. It was dappled with the squashed remains of dead insects. 'Could be,' he said at last. 'Mind telling me where you were between six and seven o'clock yesterday morning?'

The sudden change of tack threw me. 'At six o'clock I was probably in the shower. Then I had breakfast and went to the surgery.'

'What time?'

'Perhaps quarter to seven.'

'Early start.'

'I didn't sleep well.'

'Anyone vouch for those times?'

'Henry. I had a cup of coffee with him when I arrived. Black, no sugar, in case you need to know that as well.'

'It's just routine, Dr Hunter. You've been involved in enough police inquiries in the past to know how it works.'

'Pull over.'

'What?'

'Just pull over.'

He seemed about to argue, then flicked on the indicator and pulled into the side of the road.

'Am I here as a suspect or because you want my help?'

'Look, we're asking every-'

'Which is it?'

'All right, I'm sorry, perhaps I shouldn't have come out with it like that. But they're questions we've got to ask.'

'If you think I had anything to do with it then I shouldn't be here. You think I'm looking forward to this? I'd be more than happy if I never had to see another dead body in my life. So if you're not going to trust me I might as well get out now.'

Mackenzie sighed. 'Look, I don't think you had anything to do with it. If I did, then you can take my word for it we wouldn't be using you. But we're asking everyone in the village the same thing. I just thought I'd get it over and done with, OK?'

I still didn't like the way he'd sprung the question on me. He'd wanted to surprise me, to see how I would react. I wondered if the rest of our conversation had been a similar test. But, whether I liked it or not, that was his job. And I was starting to realize that he was good at it. Grudgingly, I nodded.

'Can I carry on now?' he asked.

I had to smile. 'I suppose so.'

He pulled out again. 'So how long is this likely to take? The examination,' he asked after a while, breaking the silence.

'Difficult to say. A lot depends on the condition of the body. Has the pathologist come up with anything?'

'Not much. Although we can't tell if there was a sexual assault, given that she was found naked it's pretty likely. There's what seem to be numerous small cuts on the torso and limbs, but they're only superficial. He's not even able to say for sure whether it was the throat wound or the head injuries that killed her. Any chance you'll be able to shed any light on that?'

'I don't know yet.' Having seen the crime scene photographs, I already had some ideas, but I didn't want to commit myself until I was sure.

Mackenzie gave me a sideways glance. 'I know I'm probably going to regret asking, but what exactly is it you're going to do?'

I'd been deliberately trying not to think about it. But the answers came automatically. 'I'll need to X-ray the body, if it hasn't been already. Then I'll take samples of the soft tissue to find the TSD, and-'

'The what?'

'Time-since-death interval. You can analyse changes in the body chemistry to find out how long it's been dead, basically. Composition of amino acids, volatile fatty acids, the level of protein breakdown. After that I'll have to remove any soft tissue that's left so I can examine the skeleton itself. See what sort of trauma it suffered, what type of weapon caused it. That sort of thing.'

Mackenzie had a frown of distaste. 'How do you do that?'

'Well, if there's not much soft tissue left you can either use a scalpel or forceps. Or you boil the body for a few hours in detergent.'

Mackenzie pulled a face. 'Now I know why you wanted to be a GP' I could see the moment when he remembered my other reasons. 'Sorry,' he added.