Christopher Fowler - White Corridor

“Needle marks. It occurs to me that Finch might have been a user.”

“You think he was a drug addict?”

“No, but we know he suffered from heart disease and plenty of other age-related illnesses. He was a very private man. If he was in pain, he might have covered up the fact and taken something to quell it, like morphine. It’s the kind of traditional opiate that would have appealed to him. You take it in tablet form as well. Cancer patients can ingest it as a syrup. It would have made him lethargic, though, and I haven’t heard any reports of unusual behaviour on his part. If he’d accidentally overdosed, he would have had reason to use the naltrexone.”

“I thought you already checked his body.”

“I only had time to carry out a preliminary survey before I was accused of murder by the unit’s resident Diana Dors. Besides, Finch’s skin tone was naturally jaundiced, and I had no reason to look for opiates.”

“We haven’t got much in the way of prints,” said Banbury, disappointed. “I think Finch was in the habit of frequently cleaning the surfaces with sterile wipes.”

“What about the floor?”

“Sprung wood flooring sealed under a polymer-I might get something more from the carpet tiles, or in the corridor. By the time visitors reached here, their shoes were clean.” His mobile suddenly played the first seven bars of the overture to Utopia, Limited. ‘Sorry,“ Banbury apologised. ”I lent it to Mr. Bryant and it came back playing Gilbert and Sullivan. Hello?“ He listened for a moment. ”I don’t know. Hang on. Giles, the body of the unidentified girl-where are her clothes?“

“Finch probably tagged and sealed them-is that Bryant?”

“Yes, he says to go through everything she was wearing. He thinks Mills might have come back to take something from her.”

“Tell him I’ll have a look.” Kershaw tried the steel file cabinets beneath the sink and found what he was looking for. Removing the clear plastic envelope, he unzipped it and shook out a floral miniskirt, black tights, knickers, dirty white Nike trainers, a stained green T-shirt, a man’s belt, a grey long-sleeved sweatshirt and a bra. Everything smelled of alcohol. “Cheap brands, well cared for but worn for too long. Colour fading from overwashing. No bag.” He upended the packet and found a handful of beaded arm bracelets, the kind sold on every stall in Camden Market.

“There’s not much there to tell you about her life,” said Banbury.

“Actually, there’s quite a bit,” Kershaw contradicted. “She started drinking hard and thieving in the last year of her life. A drug user but not dependently so. Probably got kicked out of her parents’ house, did some sofa-surfing in old school friends’ flats.”

“You can tell that from her clothes?”

“She was a size ten when she bought these things. Everything here was fashionable about a year ago, and the trainers are worn over. Even taking into account the fact that women tend to buy their bras and pants a size too small, Finch’s notes suggest she died at a heavier weight than that indicated by her clothes. Hard drugs are appetite suppressants, so that couldn’t have been her problem.”

“How do you know she was a thief?”

Kershaw poked his finger through matching holes in the sweatshirt and T-shirt.

“She shoplifted them with the tags intact, then was forced to tear them out. No rings, no money, no purse, no jewellery of value. Either she was robbed on the street or she sold everything she had. If this kid Mills really knew her, he was probably her only friend. What do you think sparked the change in her behaviour?”

“I’m not good with people,” Banbury admitted. “I stick with surfaces, software and stains.”

“You techies have no soul,” muttered Kershaw, sniffing a trainer. “She washed, kept herself nice. There’s perfume and soap beneath the alcohol; I think it’s a Donna Karan brand. Strange that she’d have an expensive perfume but no money to buy clothes.” He set down the training shoe. “You think you know how children grow up. It’s just biology. But something happens: unmentioned damage, a private passion, the shock of lost innocence; the points change and the train gets diverted. How does that work? I wish Bryant and May were here. They’re so good at understanding this sort of thing. What would they do now?”

“The only lead is the boy,” said Banbury, “so they’d ask him what it was he came to take.”

Kershaw stared thoughtfully at the sad little bundle of clothing. “I thought you said Finch did a preliminary on her?”

“He did. At least, he told several people he was working on the case, and he always made notes as he went along using the Waterman fountain pen Mr. Bryant gave him for his birthday.”

“That’s what I thought. He’s jotted down her height and weight but that’s all.” He held up the ring binder Finch kept on his work table and flipped it open. “The pen’s here with its cap off. Apart from that, his last entry in the book is dated six days ago. No other notes. Why didn’t he make any?”

“Maybe he didn’t feel they were conclusive enough to set down just yet.”

“If he’d been suffering from the effects of morphine, he wouldn’t have been thinking clearly,” said Kershaw. “You may not want to stay around for this, Dan. I have to perform an autopsy on Oswald.”

“Have you done one before?”

“Plenty of times, at college, but this will be my first live corpse. I’m going to find proof that he was murdered.”

“You’re supposed to keep an open mind about the cause of death until you uncover defining evidence.”

“Bryant thinks he was killed.” Kershaw reopened the drawer containing the medical examiner’s body. “That’s good enough for me. I’d like to hear what Owen Mills has to say for himself.”

The unheated institution-green interview room was supposed to appear bare and depressing, somewhere witnesses could deliver concise statements before fleeing as quickly as possible. While she waited for Mills’s next monosyllable, Longbright thought about pinning up a few movie posters, Ava Gardner and Gregory Peck, perhaps. The boy didn’t seem very bright, and was having trouble dragging up any kind of plausible story. First he told them that the street door to the mortuary had been left open and he’d simply walked in. Then he tried to suggest that he and Finch were friends, but could not seem to recall where or when they had met. As for the girl lying dead in the morgue drawer, he had never seen, heard of or met her.

The sergeant knew that when suspects chose to hide the truth, they were better off sticking with very simple statements. The ones who offered too much detail tried so hard to convince that they were rarely believed. While DC Mangeshkar took over the questioning, Longbright slipped outside and rang the senior detectives.

“We’re not getting anywhere with him,” she admitted. “I could really do with your help.”

In the misted cabin of Alma Sorrowbridge’s transit van, Arthur Bryant held his hand over the mobile and gave his partner a look of concern. “John, I nave need of your technical knowledge. Is there a way I can get some close-up pictures of the dead girl’s body?”

“That should be easy. Let me get Dan Banbury on my phone. If he’s still at the morgue I’ll have him take digital shots and get them sent to this mobile, but you’ll have to specify exactly what you’re looking for.”

Bryant rang off with a promise to call back, waiting while Banbury sent through photographs of the dead girl’s ankles, her wrists and the back of her neck. The elderly detective raised his bifocals and studied the images. He only needed to search for a few moments. “Ask Mills to return her neck chain, and while you’re at it, ask him what he’s done with Oswald’s notes.”