“Well, we’re rather worried,” said Catherine. “There appears to be a murderer on the loose in our home, and we think we have something to offer your investigation. I’m a former pathologist. Margaret here is in the House of Lords and used to run the Home Office.”
“And I used to be a copper, which I tried to tell you the other day, but you weren’t interested,” said Geoffrey.
Bob let out a sigh, appearing to take a second to adjust to the unusual situation in which he found himself. Flummoxed, he turned to Laura. “Help me out here, Welsh.”
Laura adopted a professional tone. “Thank you all for your offers of help. It’s clear you have expertise. As I’m sure you can appreciate, a murder investigation is a sensitive thing. We can’tallow members of the public, however distinguished, to get involved.”
“Distinguished. Good word, good word,” said Bob. “Yep. That’s where we’re at with it. You’re all very distinguished but I’m going to have to ask you, very kindly, to do one.” Bob waggled his thumb, suggesting the direction in which he thought they ought to sod off.
“No, thank you,” said Catherine. “We’re coming in.”
“I don’t get it,” said Laura. “Why do three retired people want to come to an autopsy?”
“Because, my dear,” said Margaret, “we arebored.”
—
Margaret wasn’t surewhat to expect. She’d seen this sort of thing on television. Didn’t they keep the bodies in drawers? Had she remembered that right? Would the room be cold? She’d dressed for the mild weather, not an indoor freezer. And how would she react when she saw the body? What if she had a completely unexpected response? Fainted or started screaming or broke into uncontrolled song?
The smell hit her. Chemicals, like a photography lab, back when that was still a thing.
“Hello, everybody, hello, Catherine. How exciting. We have an audience today.” The man was in his fifties and carried himself like an accountant. The sort of person, thought Margaret, you’d see on a train eating shortbread biscuits and it would never occur to you that they spent their days with corpses. Beside him there was a plump girl in her twenties. The kind people used to callbubbly. She reminded Margaret of her younger self. “My name is Dr. Stephen Turnham. This is Gemma.”
The echoey room had white brick walls. There was a sink, various pieces of apparatus that hinted at the grim nature of the job: knives, pliers, scissors, a saw. Margaret swallowed. A green hose hung on the wall. Dr. Turnham walked over to a table with a black sheet over what Margaret assumed must be the body.
“Is everybody ready?”
They all nodded solemnly.
“Yes,” said Margaret quietly. She steadied herself.
Dr. Turnham whipped off the sheet to reveal the body of Sir Desmond Crisp, their friend. Margaret instinctively crossed herself. Geoffrey, she noticed, was looking away. He appeared to be going green.
“As you are all aware, he fell from a roughly fifty-foot height,” said Turnham breezily. “He appears to have landed on his back. Skull fracture, fractured collarbone, spine broken in five places, broken hip. Trauma to the abdomen resulting in ruptured intestines and a severe leakage of semi-digested beef. Right leg broken. Left leg fine so, for his football career’s sake, let’s hope he’s a left-footer.Joke. Severe damage to the brain, heart failure, and a collapsed lung. Ladies and gentleman, at this point I can confidently state that this man is dead. But this is where it gets interesting.”
It was about to getmoreinteresting? Margaret, fascinated, was already wishing she could relive her life and try pathology as a career.
“Desmond Crisp would most likely have died without the fall. He may have been dead before he came off the roof.”
Bob popped nicotine gum into his mouth and chewed intently.
Dr. Turnham pointed to the cadaver’s forehead. “This is a blow to the head, most likely not caused by impact from the fall but by him being struck with an object. You see this circular imprint? It’s about forty-five millimeters in diameter. Somebody hit him.”
Catherine quickly took a notepad from her handbag and started scribbling. Laura frowned, annoyed, wondering if she should be doing the same.
The pathologist continued: “Take a look at the neck. This redness here indicates that the victim was strangled. The abrasions suggest some kind of fabric was in contact with his skin. A scarf could have been used, or perhaps they were wearing gloves.”
“Jesus Christ,” said Bob. “Some fucker really wanted Des dead.” He then looked to the elderly ladies beside him. “Excuse my French.”
We’re looking at a dead body, thought Margaret. Swear away.
“There’s more,” said Dr. Turnham. “We’ve had a look at his bloods. The victim was poisoned. We’re waiting on Toxicology for an exact ID on the substance. Might take a while. Let’s just say they’re no Speedy Gonzalezes in that department.” He turned to Gemma, his assistant. They rolled their eyes, sharing in a workplace gripe that meant nothing to anyone else in the room.
“All right. Well, thank you, Stephen,” said Catherine, adjusting the shoulder strap on her handbag. “Is there anything else we should know?”
Bob Beattie looked affronted. He cleared his throat, attempting to establish his control of the room. “I’ll take the lead, if you don’t mind. Right. Um. Yeah, is there anything else we should know?”
Dr. Turnham thought for a second. “I can tell you what Desmond Crisp ate for his last meal if you’re interested?”
