David Hewson - The Lizard's Bite

“It’s just that spontaneous combustion . . .”—it was hard even to say the words—“ . . . seems such an unusual finding.”

“Unheard of,” agreed Tosi the elder.

“Hereabouts,” junior corrected him. “There are plenty of antecedents.”

“Anna . . . ?” he wondered. “Could you possibly show Dr. Lupo the computer ?”

He spoke the word with near-religious veneration.

The girl got up and walked across the office to the single old and very dusty PC that sat on a tiny, cheap desk.

“That contraption is quite astonishing,” Tosi revealed. “I expect you have more than one. Here . . . it’s not necessary. Wasted expense and we never spend more than is absolutely necessary. Mind you, I don’t know what we’d do without it. Did you know that in Milwaukee in 1843 there was a documented case of spontaneous combustion in an iron foundry? Very like our own.”

“People catching fire in foundries . . .” She didn’t want to annoy the old man. He’d surely clam up if that happened. “It’s not that hard to fathom really, is it?”

“These cases are,” Anna interjected, tapping slowly at the keys with one short, slender finger. “For instance, in Arras, northern France. October 1953. A private house, body on the floor, no sign of fire elsewhere. Same in London, six years later . . .”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Teresa said, fighting back her temper. “Details I can read for myself anytime. Can you just zip those files and e-mail them to me?”

Two very young, very innocent eyes blinked at her from behind the anachronistic round glasses.

“Zip?” Anna repeated.

“Watch me.”

Teresa pulled her chair up to the desk, elbowed the girl out of the way, hacked manically at the keys with her stubby fingers, bundled the pile of documents the girl had there into an attachment, then forwarded the lot to her own private e-mail address, one she could access later through Nic’s computer, Peroni being as allergic to the things as Tosi elder apparently was.

The Tosis glanced at each other in awe, as if a creature from the future had walked into the room.

“Bodies,” Teresa declared firmly, wishing she’d never given up smoking as part of the if-it-hurts-it’s-bound-to-make-you-pregnant routine. “I can’t think without seeing one. Can we start there, please?”

“Whatever we have is yours to behold,” Tosi elder avowed, and got up after he’d finished scrawling a single word on his notepad: Zip!

They walked along the corridor, into a tiny white room with a single shining table and a collection of equipment so old most of it belonged in a museum. Teresa wondered if she couldn’t get rid of the Tosis for a while, maybe by entering them for a game show called “Name That Century.” She didn’t want to try to think straight under the gaze of the pair.

“What about forensic?” she asked.

Tosi smiled.

“Let me guess,” she sighed. “Mestre.”

“They have things there . . .” he said, wide-eyed.

“What did those things tell you?”

Anna went to a tiny wooden desk and took out two reports which were, if Teresa’s eyesight wasn’t playing tricks, typed.

“Nothing much about Bella Arcangelo,” the girl declared, spreading three pages on the tabletop. “There wasn’t a lot to look at really.”

“Remains,” Tosi senior mouthed gloomily, walking to one of the refrigerated compartments, then pulling it open to reveal a box—a cardboard box no less—marked “Arcangelo, Bella.” “What can you do with remains?”

Usually lots, Teresa thought, then stared at the skull, with its tapering stump of spinal cord. It sat on a bed of surgical cotton wool, surrounded by a few unidentifiable objects. She ran through the report. Plenty of traces of bone fragments, shattered by the heat, incapable of analysis to show how the woman died. A small amount of gold. No other metal. Nothing else at all. Maybe Tosi was right.

“How hot does a glass furnace run?” she asked. She was unable to take her eyes off the familiar shape, burnt a bleached-out white.

“At that time of the morning . . .” Tosi mused. “Say fourteen hundred, fifteen hundred centigrade. Around what you’d find in a modern crematorium. It’s a fascinating process. I’ve studied it a little. You should see a glass furnace for yourself sometime. I could arrange that. A modern one, though, not the ridiculous antiques the Arcangeli insist on using. Gas and wood, for pity’s sake . . .”

“Why was just the skull left, not . . .” she began to ask.

“It was in a cooler part of the chamber,” Tosi replied quickly, proud he could second-guess the question. “If the woman was placed in the furnace headfirst . . .”

He held up his hands, mimicking the movement of sliding an object off a trolley or the wheeled table Falcone said was there.

“ . . . that’s what would happen. The hottest part is in the centre. The head would surely fetch up at the edge, where the temperature would be lower in a furnace of that age and nature. I spoke to our local crematorium. They think a woman of this size would reach such a state of dissolution in an hour, possibly less, at this temperature. Am I doing all right so far?”

She gave him a smile that was meant to say: impressed.

“Exactly the conclusion I would draw,” she admitted, and meant it too. Calling up the crematorium to get some practical knowledge was precisely what she’d have done herself. “But since I lack your knowledge of glassmaking, I imagine it would have taken me longer.”

Tosi waved a hand in her direction, smiling. “Romans,” he said. “See, Anna. So self-deprecating. No matter what people say . . .”

Teresa looked around the room. There was no sign of any other work. The Tosis had all day to chat about their wonderful discovery. Presumably everything else was getting shipped off to Mestre.

“You’re too kind. Now the man.”

Anna went to a second compartment and slid out the drawer. Teresa Lupo took a very good look at what lay there and wondered if, perhaps, she wasn’t going crazy.

Uriel Arcangelo was half cadaver, half charcoal stump. From the waist down the man looked like someone who’d been dumped in a giant inkwell, then left to dry. The fabric of his clothing—suit trousers and what looked like the remains of a work apron—was charred. Most of the flesh beneath, revealed by some of the Tosis’ exploratory incisions, seemed unexceptional, not that it would have much to tell. But above the belt the man had been transformed. The entire upper half of his body had been consumed by fire, incinerated into a black mass, shrunken in on itself, composed principally of bones and a few carbonised pieces of flesh. His skull was now turned to one side, the mouth open in that familiar expression of agony, one which, on this occasion, was doubtless warranted. Teresa Lupo was familiar with fire victims. Either half of Uriel’s body fitted the picture she recognised. People were consumed, or they died asphyxiated, little marked by the fire itself. It was unheard of for a corpse to share both characteristics.

“Now let me get this straight,” she demanded. “You’re saying there was no direct combustion on the body? Everything from the chest up somehow happened without the application of any external flame whatsoever?”

“That’s what we understand from the fire department,” Tosi confirmed. “He was a good five metres from the furnace.”

“Photos?” Teresa asked.

The girl walked over to a filing cabinet and withdrew a file. There were just five, Teresa was astonished to learn, pretty poor quality too, as if they came from an instant camera. The prints depicted Uriel Arcangelo’s corpse surrounded by what appeared to be a black pool of charred material. Teresa looked more closely. The heat around the upper torso had been so strong it had actually burned a space in the wooden flooring beneath the man.