Moonlight Bones (A DI Fenella Sallow Crime Thriller Book 9), page 18
"Eh, lad! What are you saying?" Dexter wiped his hand across the back of his neck. "Hope the Doc ain't like them old-time pathologists. They called them 'slash, splash and grab merchants.' Not that the detectives got too close to the action. They'd hang about in a far corner, smoking cigarettes to keep the smell at bay. It were a messy business back then. Can't imagine it'll be like that today." He nodded towards the steel doors. "No, no — lad, no, no, no. Not like the old days in that room."
Once again, Jones glanced at his phone, lips moving. When at last he spoke, it was a whisper. "Dr Hawkins has been around for donkey's years, boss. Might even have known some of those old-timers."
Dexter groaned.
Fenella eyed the solid steel doors and tasted sourness at the back of her throat. She sucked in a breath of the pure, foul stink, wishing she'd stuck to black coffee. "We'd best get it over with and hear what Dr Hawkins has to say about the death of Mr Wilfred Ash."
Chapter 110
The mortuary seemed unnaturally bright after the dimness of the flagstone corridor. White rays glared from the overhead lights; their cold beams shone on the steel trolleys, trays, tweezers, scalpels and other vicious-looking surgical instruments. The tang of disinfectant and the stench of bodily fluids mingled with the ever-present sweet bitterness of death. The faint noise of refrigeration thrummed in the background.
Strange, Fenella thought, not for the first time, that a place dedicated to uncovering the cause of death, employing the latest scientific techniques to reveal its darkest secrets, should resemble the back room of an old-fashioned butcher's shop.
Three bodies lay chilled and naked, awaiting their turn with the pathologist's knife. A fat man with a double chin and vast belly lay on his back with his arms at his side. Two women were on the other trolleys. A tiny, wizened lass with large breasts and hollow cheeks rested on her back. Her twig-thin legs were splayed wide and raised by two blocks. The other was much younger, in her twenties, with a tangle of leathery brown hair. Her neck hung at an inhuman angle. Her coal-black eyes were so dark they seemed to watch.
Fenella had attended many post-mortems over the years, and still, her pulse quickened. She glanced at the twig-thin lass and wanted to cover her with a blanket. Then she wondered who the woman was and felt sorry for her.
A pity.
A waste.
A loved one's heart broken.
She tried to focus on her questions but caught sight of Dr Hawkins at the far side of the frigid room, emptying something disgusting into a silver dish. The pathologist wore faded green scrubs, stout black boots, and a battered red rubber apron streaked with blood and brownish bodily fluids.
Dr Hawkins bent low over the silver dish. The woman's pear-shaped face tapered to a sharp chin with thin, bloodless lips. But it was her copper-hued eyes that stirred an uneasy memory in Fenella. They were close to her hooked nose and gleamed with a secretive delight.
Dr Hawkins muttered inaudible words. Not English. No way. Some sort of weird foreign babble. Then she dipped her nose even closer to the silver dish and sniffed.
With a jolt, a memory struck. And it struck hard. A nasty one. It had replayed in Fenella's mind for weeks after the event. Even now, when she thought of it, her stomach turned over in disgust. It was a play she'd seen in London.
Dr Hawkins has the look of Sweeney Todd about her eyes. And it was Sweeney who murdered his customers with a straight razor. A touch of Mrs Nellie Lovett, too. That lass helped butcher the victims, then baked the poor sods into savoury pies for sale in her baker's shop. And how Sweeney Todd and Mrs Lovett sniffed at their pies, grinning and clapping, encouraging the patrons to try!
Fenella mentioned none of that. Nor did she mention the unshakeable feeling deep in her gut that things were about to get weird. She breathed slowly to shield her nose against the smell.
"Dr Hawkins?" Her voice boomed in the quietness. She flashed a friendly smile. "We got your message."
Dr Hawkins dropped the silver dish on a steel trolley. The pathologist shuffled towards the detectives with her gloved hands raised and arms open in welcome.
"Ah, Detective Sallow, a pleasure to meet you." She darted a quick glance at Dexter and Jones. "And Detective Sergeant Robert Dexter with Detective Constable Jones, I presume?"
Jones exhaled a soft gurgle. Dexter grunted. Fenella said nothing.
Dr Hawkins lowered her arms, looked down at the rubber apron, and gasped as though suddenly aware of her surroundings. "Call me Jane. A good friend, Dr MacKay, told me all about you."
Dr MacKay was the senior pathologist at the Port St Giles Cottage Hospital — an old-school medical man who drank hard, hated the ever-growing misery of bureaucracy, and was a legend in the profession.
Dr Hawkins went on. "I suppose now is a good time for a break." She darted a longing glance at the fat man. "I've not finished with Mr Wilfred Ash. Still lots to do. Internal organs to—"
"You've got something for us?" Fenella didn't want the dismal notes on what lay ahead for Mr Ash's corpse. It was too early for grim and grisly details, too soon after breakfast. "You said something about it being weird."
Dr Hawkins bobbed her head. "Ah, Dr MacKay mentioned you were eager. No detail too small for the eagle-eyed lass. Said you were his star pupil, the hands-on type. 'Give my Fenella and her team a full-throated demonstration.' His exact words." Her bloodless lips curved. "And I'm going to give it to you straight."
Fenella wasn't sure she liked the sound of that. Jones let out a dry croak. Dexter also croaked, although he pretended he was clearing his throat.
"Bit of dust trapped in my windpipe, Doc." Dexter coughed, making a dreadful racket. "The air ain't half thin in here. Dry, too. A demonstration, you say?"
Chapter 111
The refrigeration mechanism rattled and moaned. The steel doors groaned open. An assistant, a man with a moon face and tiny black eyes, shuffled into the room. He tiptoed in a dancing motion towards the metal trolley with the medical instruments, picked out a sharp-toothed saw and, whistling a merry tune, skipped towards the wizened lass with hollow cheeks, large breasts and twig-thin legs.
Dr Hawkins rubbed gloved hands. "Make the incision at the—"
A wave of light-headedness almost overcame Fenella. She spoke quickly, eyeing the assistant and the lethal saw. "Did Mr Ash die from the blast or inhaling smoke?"
Dr Hawkins stopped. Her gaze darted from the detectives to the wizened lass on the trolley. "One moment, Wolfgang."
The moon-faced man turned his small eyes on the detectives. He puckered his lips but did not whistle. Nor did he lower the saw in his right hand. The man's eagerness to get started hung in the room with the intensity of a terrible stink. He stepped towards the wizened lass and whimpered.
"I said one moment." Dr Hawkins spoke in a tone of mild disappointment, as if she didn't want to say the words, as if she, too, was eager to play her part in the action, but not in polite company. Not in front of the detectives. "We shall get to Miss Dumbleton soon. I promise."
Wolfgang kept his small, dark eyes on the detectives. He muttered something that might have been a prayer or an oath and laid the saw at the feet of the wizened lass. With quick, trembling movements, he adjusted the blocks, so her legs splayed wider.
He stepped back, lips puckered, admiring his work. His slow gaze travelled from the woman's feet, shins, knees, and thighs. Higher still, lingering. A sound escaped his lips. Tiny and quiet. A moan. His gaze continued to travel. Abdomen, ribs, then up, lingering on her breasts.
His breaths became fast and shallow and uneven.
His gaze travelled to her neck.
He stepped closer.
Another tiny moan escaped his lips. His entire body shook. A kind of tension. Repressed. Held down. Trying to hide the emotion from view. He sucked in a deep breath, hands trembling. Then he shuddered, turned his moist gaze back on the detectives and waited.
Fenella took a shallow sip of air and was grateful she had full control over her stomach. If only she had better control over her curiosity. She didn't. Her nosy gene kicked in.
"I suppose the lass died under suspicious circumstances?" She nodded at Miss Dumbleton but couldn't stand to look at her nakedness or the moist shine in Wolfgang's dark eyes. "A terrible tragedy, eh?"
"Good God no!" Dr Hawkins' copper eyes glistened. "No, no — Inspector Sallow, no, no, no. That is not it at all."
Fenella waited for more, but when none came, she couldn't help herself. "So, what happened to the lass?"
"Natural causes." Dr Hawkins' voice trembled, part excited, part sad, part keen to move on. From her tone it was clear she didn't want to talk about it, didn't want to discuss what lay ahead for Miss Dumbleton at the trembling hands of Wolfgang. "Died in her sleep after a long and productive life as…"
Her voice fell away to the hum of the refrigeration unit. Cold air hissed through the ventilation shaft. Questions spun in Fenella's mind but she held them back, letting the silence move into an agonising wait. She was good at the wait.
Suddenly, Wolfgang jerked forward as though he couldn't wait any longer. As though he had to begin right now. As though he'd been dreaming of this moment for aeons and wanted to get a move on. He nodded at the detectives with a gap-toothed grin. "Ja, Ja, sie lebte ein langes und glückliches leben."
Fenella recognised the language as German but caught only a handful of words. But it was his voice that made her shudder. Low and gruff, almost a whisper that sounded like sorrowful tears.
Dr Hawkins flashed a bloodless smile. "Yes, that is quite right, Wolfgang. My sister led a long and happy life." She turned towards the detectives. "Wolfgang is her partner. They never married or had children but shared many joyful years together in Brandenburg. Four decades of wondrous love. Wolfgang has worked as a pathologist's assistant for as long as I've known him." A tear rolled down her cheek. "They met in a room such as this. My sister was in the same profession as me. We made a promise to each other that on death—"
"Ja, Ja!" Wolfgang spoke in broken and halting English. "Ja, my lovely partner donated her body to… how you say… science. On her deathbed she made me promise…". His small dark eyes glistened and a tear ran down his cheek. "… to do the work. Me and her sister together. Ovaries, breast tissue and her thyroid are to be removed for cancer research. Her passion. It is good, ja?"
Chapter 112
It was hard to believe, Fenella found, even when the pathologist explained how Mr Wilfred Ash died.
Dr Hawkins ambled a few paces towards the detectives but stopped as though not wanting to move too far from her sister. "Asphyxiation was certainly my first thought, especially since Mr Ash was found sprawled on the floor by a table."
Fenella nodded. "Aye, it doesn't take much to see how smoke might have overcome him."
"My second thought was death due to blast trauma. That's instant and gory but less suffering. A big enough explosion and it is lights out before you know what hit you." Dr Hawkins jabbed a gloved hand at something stuck to her rubber apron, swiping it away with a quick flick. "It always helps when one can tell their loved ones they didn't suffer. Alas, Mr Ash didn't die from smoke inhalation or blast trauma."
The refrigeration unit rattled and groaned. A burst of cold air swept through the room. Fenella pictured Mr Ash sitting at his usual table in Le Petit Toon Café and tried to work out how he died. The bustle and hustle of the busy place. The explosion. The crash and bang and gale of fear whipping through the café. The melee as frightened customers and screaming staff headed en masse for the front door. But according to the café owner, Mr Tony Connelly, Mr Ash remained at his table. There was only one way she could see that happening.
Fenella exhaled. "His heart?"
"Very good." Dr Hawkins stepped towards the detectives. Her rubber apron squealed. "We found digitalis in his system. Still quite common in heart medication. His heart wasn't as strong as it once was."
"So, the shock of the blast caused his heart to stop, Doc?" Dexter's gaze darted from Dr Hawkins to Mr Ash's corpse. "Frightened half to death isn't how I'd want to go."
"It wasn't his heart, detectives." Dr Hawkins ambled to Mr Ash, nodded at Wolfgang, and together they rolled him onto one side. "Gather around. Come closer."
Fenella, sensing the reluctance in Dexter and Jones, led the way.
"Bend forward and look." Dr Hawkins waved them on with a gloved hand and then poked at a fold of flesh on Mr Ash's back. "Lean closer so your nose almost touches his flesh."
Fenella peered at the lardy folds of skin. The acute tang of decay shot up her nostrils. "What are we looking for?"
Dr Hawkins pointed at an indentation on his back. "See it now?"
Fenella squinted at the small hollow in the rippling sea of skin.
"Aye." It was coming to her now. The full horror of what had happened to Mr Wilfred Ash. "I see it."
"Damn evil thing to happen to a bloke enjoying his cuppa, guv." Dexter's words came out in an arid croak. He leaned closer, eyeing the hollow dimple. "The work of a bleedin' wicked devil."
Jones saw it too. "Whoa, this is nuts!" The words escaped his lips in rapid fire gasping burst. "That's the last thing I expected. Never crossed my mind. Wow!"
Dr Hawkins became still; her words exact and final. "Mr Ash didn't feel it. A pin prick, nothing more. Not a lot of blood because the fat closed in and sealed the wound. Alas, the internal damage was done long before anyone noticed." She looked at the detectives. "Mr Ash died from a stab wound. A thin, long blade plunged deep in his back."
Chapter 113
Fred Lowe didn't know what the man wanted but he knew it wasn't good.
Rain fell hard that morning. An intense curtain swept across the courtyard at the Cathedral Café in Carlisle. It pounded the ancient flagstones in an unholy racket, smashed in joyless bursts against the centuries-old architecture, and emptied its endless bladder over the tranquil gardens.
Inside, the café was cosy and quiet and warm. A barista in a neat black uniform thrust coffee beans into a vicious-looking grinder. It vibrated and strained; its tenuous roar soared, then came a blustery burst of crushing gasps followed by silence. An intense aroma filled the air — a nutty sweetness with hints of dark chocolate, toasted nuts, and warm spices. It mingled with the scents of freshly baked bread, vanilla, and honey.
The storm tumbled leaves against the thick glass that separated Fred from the raging weather. The huge window didn't dim the howling wind or slow the giant raindrops that struck with the tempo of pounding fists. Nor did it stop the sour unease beginning its tragic rise in his gut.
"You want to talk about what?"
Fred tried not to sound hostile or hateful or furious. But Friday mornings at seven thirty were his special time. A sacred time. A time he spent alone in Cathedral Café. Just him, his thoughts and his beige doctor's style briefcase which he put under the table, hidden from view.
He always sat at the same place by the vast windows. Always the third table because it gave a clear view of the flagstone plaza with its majestic blue parasols, neat green lawn, and tilted tombstones. And he always slung his brown tweed jacket with patched elbows over the back of the chair.
Fifteen years.
Never a Friday missed.
And every Friday, he ordered a large cappuccino with two fresh-baked croissants.
Taking his time, he drank and nibbled. He enjoyed the sights and sounds and smells as the café sprung to life. At eight thirty, he would amble to the law office. By nine, he was eager to start his day's work. Only a half-day on this Friday. There was something special he always did once a month at noon.
"Thought I'd drop in for a bite to eat." The heavy scent of ale hovered on Guy Bertram's breath. "It's nice here, isn't it?"
"You drove from Gilsland to Carlisle for a cup of coffee and a pastry?" Fred didn't want to sound hostile, but this was Friday and he was a man of routine and on Friday he always sat at the third table. Alone. "What do you want?"
Guy picked at his croissant and pushed the plate away. "I knew you would be here."
"You haven't answered my question."
"You always come here on Friday. Always wear the same clothes. Always eye the menu and order the same food. Always sit in the same spot. Always hang your tweed jacket on the back of your chair."
"Are you spying on me?"
"Everyone knows."
Fred frowned, plucked a comb from his jacket pocket and raked it across his bald spot. Was he a slave to his routine? His grandad wore the same clothes every day except on Sunday when he wore his grey suit to church. The grey suit came out for weddings and funerals, too. He wasn't getting like Grandad, was he? He sipped his cappuccino, savouring the bitter taste, watching Guy and thinking.
Guy watched him back. "It's a marvellous thing, the way you stick to your routine. It makes you predictable and that is a very good thing." He slurped a mouthful of coffee and nodded at the barista. "A predictable man is a reliable man. And a reliable man is great to have as a friend. Everyone knows they can count on Fred."
A burst of lightning exploded in enormous streaks across the grey sky. A fabulous electric show illuminating the crashing rain.
Guy touched his hair. "It's losing its shine."
"Pardon?"
"My hair is growing greyer by the day."
Fred flashed an admiring look. "If I had a head of hair like that, I'd fall on my knees and thank God every day."
"And you would curse."
"Why?"
"Because they would never serve you beer in any pub. You'd look too young. I don't know how you do it."
Fred grinned. "Active lifestyle."
"You jogging now?"
"Crossword puzzles."
"You what?"
"When I get to the office, I spend the first hour solving the newspaper crossword, then twenty minutes on sudoku. They are the elixir of youth for mind and body."
