Simon Beckett - The Chemistry of Death

'He wants you to carry out tests on it. He says you'll know what he means,' the policeman said. The box didn't look very heavy, but he was still red-faced and breathless from carrying it. Or perhaps he'd just been trying to hold his breath. The smell was already noticeable.

He hurried out as I opened the box. In it, wrapped in plastic, was Sally Palmer's dog. I guessed Mackenzie wanted me to carry out the same analysis on the animal as I had on its owner. If, as seemed likely, it had been killed when she'd been abducted, knowing how long ago it had died would also tell us when its owner had been taken. And how long she had been kept alive. There was no guarantee her killer would do the same for Lyn Metcalf, but it would give some idea of her possible survival window.

It was a good idea. Unfortunately, it wouldn't work. A dog's body chemistry isn't the same as a human's, so any comparative tests would be meaningless. The best I could do was examine the score marks made on its vertebrae. With luck that might show if the same knife had also cut the animal's throat. It was hardly going to change the course of the investigation, but had to be done all the same.

I gave Marina a rueful smile. 'Looks like we'll be working late.'

In the end, though, it hadn't taken as long as I'd expected. The dog was much smaller, which made life easier. I'd taken the X-rays I needed and then put its body to boil in detergent. Tomorrow when I arrived at the lab there would be nothing left but its skeleton to examine. The thought of the remains of both Sally and her dog lying in the same room struck a chord within me, but I wasn't sure if it was a comforting or mournful note.

The low sun lanced off the surface of Manham Water, setting the lake on fire as the road bent and dipped in its approach to the village. Squinting, I pulled my sunglasses down from my forehead. For an instant my vision was obscured by the frame, and then I saw a figure walking towards me on the road edge. I was surprised to see someone so close, but they were back-lit by the blinding sun, and I was almost past before I recognized who it was. I stopped and reversed until my open window was level with her.

'Can I give you a lift home?'

Linda Yates looked up and down the empty road as if considering the question before answering. 'I'm not going your way.'

'Doesn't matter. It'll only take a few minutes. Hop in.'

I leaned across and pushed the door open. When she still hesitated I said, 'It's not far out of my way. I've been meaning to check on Sam anyway.'

The mention of her son's name seemed to decide her. She climbed in. I remember noticing how she sat close to the door, but at the time I didn't think anything of it.

'How's he been?' I asked.

'Better.'

'Has he gone back to school?'

She raised a shoulder. 'Doesn't seem much point. They finish tomorrow.'

That was right. I'd lost track of time, forgotten the school was about to break up for the long summer holiday. 'How about Neil?'

For the first time something like a smile came and went. But it was a bitter one. 'Oh, he's fine. He's like his dad.'

There were domestic undercurrents there it was best to avoid. 'Have you been at work?' I asked. I knew she sometimes cleaned for a couple of the village shops.

'We needed some things from the supermarket.' She lifted the plastic bag she'd been carrying as if to prove it.

'Bit late to go shopping, isn't it?'

She glanced at me. By now there was no mistaking her nervousness. 'Somebody's got to do it.'

'Couldn't…' I searched for her husband's name. 'Couldn't Gary take you?'

She shrugged. It obviously wasn't an option.

'I don't know that walking home alone is a good idea right now.'

Again, that quick, nervous look. She seemed to press herself up against the door even more.

'Everything all right?' I asked, but I was beginning to see that it wasn't.

'Fine.'

'You seem a bit on edge.'

'Just… be glad to be home, that's all.'

She was gripping the edge of the door, where the window was open. She seemed ready to fling herself out of it. 'Come on, Linda, what's wrong?'

'Nothing.' It came out too quickly. And now, belatedly, I began to understand what it was.

She was scared. Of me.

'If you'd rather I stopped so you can walk the rest of the way, just say,' I told her, cautiously.

I could tell from the way she looked at me that I'd been right. I thought back, realized with hindsight how reluctant she'd been to get into the car. But it wasn't as if I was a stranger, for God's sake. I'd been the family's doctor since I arrived, seen Sam through mumps and chickenpox, Neil through a broken arm. It was only a few days earlier that I'd been in her kitchen, when her boys had made the gruesome discovery that had started all this. What the hell's going on?

After a moment, she shook her head. 'No. It's all right.' Some of the tension had left her, though not all of it.

'I don't blame you for being wary. I just thought I was doing you a favour.'

'You are, it's just…'

'Go on.'

'It's nothing. Only talk.'

Until then I'd been putting her reaction down to a general anxiety, an indiscriminate mistrust in the face of what was happening in the village. Now my own unease began to grow as I began to understand it was something more.

'What sort of talk?'

'There's a rumour going round… That you'd been arrested.'

I hadn't known what to expect, but it certainly wasn't that.

'I'm sorry,' she said, as though I might blame her for it. 'It's just stupid gossip.'

'Why the hell would anyone think that?' I asked, stunned.

She was fretting at her hands now, no longer afraid of me, only of having to tell me this: 'You've not been at the surgery. People are saying that the police came to see you, that you'd been driven away with that inspector. The one in charge.'

It was becoming all too clear now. In lieu of any real news, rumour had rushed in to fill the vacuum. And by agreeing to help Mackenzie I'd inadvertently made myself a target. It was so absurd I could have laughed. Except it wasn't funny.

I realized I was about to drive past Linda's house. I pulled up, still too stunned to speak.

'I'm sorry,' she said again. 'I just thought…' She didn't finish.

I tried to think of what I could say that wouldn't involve dredging up my entire past for the village to examine. 'I've been helping the police. Working with them, I mean. I used to be… a sort of specialist. Before I came here.'

She was listening, but I wasn't sure how much sense this was making to her. Still, at least she didn't look as though she wanted to throw herself out of the car any more.

'They wanted my advice,' I went on. 'That's why I haven't been in the surgery.'

I couldn't think of anything else to say. After a moment she looked away. 'It's this place. This village.' She sounded weary. She opened the door.

'I'd still like to look in on Sam,' I said.

She gave a nod. Still shaken, I followed her up the path. Inside, the house seemed misty and dim after the brightness of the evening. The TV was playing in the lounge, a cacophony of sound and colour. Her husband and youngest son were watching it, the man slumped in a chair, the boy lying on his stomach in front of the set. They both looked around when we entered. Gary Yates turned to his wife, silently demanding an explanation.

'Dr Hunter gave me a lift home,' she said, setting down her shopping bags, moving around too quickly. 'He wanted to see how Sam was.'

Yates seemed unsure of how to react. He was a wiry man in his early thirties, with the pinched, feral look of a tinker about him. He slowly stood up, hands held uncertainly. He decided not to offer them, stuffed them into his pockets instead.

'Didn't know you were planning to call,' he said.