Murder of a Dead Man (9 page)

‘How about toast? It’s already buttered.’ He offered her the plate.

She took one. ‘What time will you be home tonight?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Then you won’t mind if I go to the cinema with the girls.’

‘No, I won’t mind. Lyn –’

‘Talk to you later. Must go.’ Leaving half the toast on the table she ran out through the door.

He looked at the breakfast he’d prepared, picked up the plates and scraped them into the bin. It wasn’t until he went upstairs to make the bed that he noticed the gift wrapped box on his bedside table.

He left it where it was.

‘Where first?’ Anna asked Peter as she switched on the route finder in the car.

‘Crawley Woods station for a courtesy call,’

Peter suggested. ‘We’ll be operating in their territory.’

‘Dan gave us copies of their files last night.’

‘There are always things that aren’t in the files.

Trevor got some of them last night from the chap who’d been in charge of the investigation.’

‘You telephoned Trevor?’

‘At seven.’

‘Disturbing the love birds.’

‘Lyn was already at work.’

‘I’ve a feeling that one’s about to fly the nest.’

‘That’s Trevor’s business, not ours.’

‘We’re all in the same boat. I’ve four long-term broken relationships. Word is you’ve been married…’

‘What’s this? Auntie Anna’s marriage guidance hour?’

‘Don’t you ever wish you were a civilian with a nice, normal job and a regular home life?’

‘Only when I’m sharing a car with a female sergeant who practises psychology for beginners.’

‘Go on Peter, admit it. You miss a woman in your life.’

‘Only sexually, and if you’re offering…’

‘I’m not offering anything at this hour.’

‘Pity, I know of a nice little lay-by.’

‘I outgrew car sex in my teens.’

‘A staid lady.’

‘Staid nothing…’

‘We’re here.’ He steered the car through a set of gates into a parking bay. ‘First stop files to check nothing was missed last night.’

‘I hate checking,’ she grumbled.

‘Then you should have stuck to housework, instead of joining the force,’ Peter retorted.

‘Just the people I want to see.’ Bill waylaid Dan and Trevor when they entered the station.

‘Not for long, I hope,’ Dan said. ‘We’re on our way to the mortuary.’

‘Aren’t we all,’ Bill quipped.

‘Not this week, I hope.’

‘Forensic reports came in.’ Bill waved a sheaf of paper at his office door and they followed him inside.

‘Did they get any prints off the hands?’ Trevor asked.

‘They’re working on them. Trying a new technique, but nothing useable has come of it so far.

They did come up with a set of smudges and a beautiful set of clear prints from the bottle.’

‘Smudges as in gloves?’ Dan questioned.

‘As in gloves,’ Bill agreed. ‘Looks like it was handled by two people. The prints are being checked through the computer now. They’re also running the boot past manufacturers, but even if they track down the maker I’ve a feeling it’s not going to be that useful. We’ve circulated the charity shops with a description in the hope that someone will remember selling them.’

‘He could have picked them up directly from the hostel or a clothing skip.’

‘I’m aware of that, Trevor,’ Bill said irritably.

‘I’m also aware that the press are having a field day.’ He pushed a newspaper across his desk. The headlines were three inches high. “WHO CARES?”

‘According to that, not the police. There’s a graphic description of lingering death by burning, screams, and us not trying very hard.’

‘Looks about par for the course to me.’ Dan slid the paper back to Bill.

‘Upstairs isn’t happy.’

Trevor crossed his arms and leaned against the door. In his experience upstairs was never happy.

And the pressure always came with the impossible cases. He’d never heard of an officer receiving a pat on the back for solving a case quickly, but they always got a kick in the rear for some reporter’s vivid imagination.

‘I’ll get back to you after we’ve spoken to Patrick, Bill.’ Dan went to the door.

‘Where are Peter and Anna?’

‘Checking out the phone ins on the victim’s identity.’

‘The dead man?’ Mulcahy said. ‘Surely you’re not wasting time on that?’

‘We’ve had no other positive I.D.’

‘It could be a relative,’ Trevor suggested.

‘Keep me informed.’

‘We will, sir.’ Dan led the way out.

‘I thought you’d be round this morning.’ Patrick delved into the abdominal cavity of the corpse laid out before him and snipped. Moments later he lifted out a liver.

‘Found anything else in our burn victim?’ Dan asked.

‘Alcohol in the bloodstream. There was enough left in the foot to test.’

‘High?’

‘Yes, but the reading we took can’t be taken as gospel. Some blood sugars turn to alcohol after death.’

‘Given that we found a whisky bottle nearby, was there enough to assume he was drunk?’

‘Double the drink-drive limit.’

‘Forensic found one set of prints and a few smudges on the whisky bottle.’

‘Someone wore gloves?’ Patrick looked up in interest.

‘Could be, if the bottle is connected to the case.’

‘I came across a couple of other things that might interest you.’ Patrick dumped the liver into a tray and handed it to his assistant. ‘Freeze, then slice for cross sections.’

‘Nice job,’ Dan commented.

‘Evidence in an industrial compensation case.’

Patrick pulled off his gloves, binned them, and put on a fresh pair before walking to the bank of drawers against the far wall. He pulled out the one that held the charred remains of the victim. He picked up the piece of cheekbone with the shreds of flesh clinging to it, and another sliver which resembled a slice of dried bark. ‘This is, or rather was, facial skin. We peeled it off the kneecap.

Under the microscope we found a series of slashes running across it.’

‘Like a skinning?’ Trevor suggested.

‘Not like a skinning at all. Some of these slashes can be matched with cuts in the skull.

Whoever did this cut the face to ribbons. Even if the victim hadn’t been burned, I think identification would have been pretty difficult.’

Dan looked up from the notes he was making.

‘Anything else?’

‘Some people are never satisfied.’

‘Can we run something by you?’

‘As long as it’s in my office over coffee. I’ve been on my feet all night.’

‘Nothing for me, thanks.’ Trevor had been served Patrick’s specimen beaker coffee before. No matter how many times Patrick and his assistants assured him that a few beakers were kept just for coffee, he couldn’t bring himself to drink it.

‘Dan?’

‘Nothing for me either, thanks.’

‘Just one,’ Patrick called to his assistant before slumping in the chair behind his desk.

‘You heard of face transplants?’ Dan asked.

‘Force keeping up with the latest plastic surgery developments?’

‘Only since our victim’s been identified as a dead man.’

‘That’s interesting.’

‘Did you notice any signs of surgery on the face?’

‘You saw what was left. I’ve showed you what I’ve got. I’m not a miracle worker.’

‘But face transplants are possible?’

‘Oh yes.’

‘In America?’

‘Here.’

‘London?’

‘Here,’ Patrick repeated. ‘In the Burns Unit.’

‘In the General?’

‘Area burns unit was re-located here two weeks ago. Don’t you read the papers? There was an official opening. Royalty…’

‘And they’ve carried out face transplants?’ Dan leaned towards Patrick.

‘I had a drink with the chap in charge the other night. Nice fellow. We talked procedures for harvesting material from donors. He wanted to know if I’d be interested in acting as standby physician to carry them out. He’s only done two so far, but from a physical point of view they’ve been spectacularly successful.’

‘He’s done them here?’

Patrick shook his head. ‘Private hospital, Germany. Both women. One born with malformations, the other a burns victim.’

‘And the press hasn’t reported them.’

‘Apart from a few general articles the press has been kept in the dark about the programme. I mentioned both transplants were physically successful, mentally is another matter. Both recipients have had psychological problems in adapting to their new image.’

‘I can understand that,’ Trevor said. ‘Must be quite a shock to look in the mirror and see another face.’

‘You sure there’s been no case of a male face transplant here?’ Dan pressed.

‘I didn’t know anything except what had been printed in the press until last week. You’d be better off speaking to the chap in charge of the Burns Unit.

It’s easy to find. It cost forty million to build, and thirty-six of those went on the foyer.’

‘What’s his name?’

‘Mark Addison. But he flew out to a conference in Key West this morning. His assistant should be around. Dr Randall.’ He glanced at Trevor. ‘She’s familiar with the procedures involved. Before she came here she assisted the chap who pioneered them. The first operations were carried out in a leper colony in Africa. Good place to try out experimental medical techniques.’

‘No one with money enough to sue when things go wrong.’

‘You’ve got it in one, Trevor.’

‘Mr Marks will see you now, Sergeant Collins, Sergeant Bradley.’ Miss Wilkinson, Brian Marks’s middle-aged secretary picked up their empty coffee cups from the impersonal cream and brown solicitor’s waiting room. ‘But he is giving you what is left of his lunch hour. He has an appointment with a client in fifteen minutes. If you had telephoned we could have arranged a more suitable time.’

‘Fifteen minutes will be more than sufficient,’

Anna interrupted, wary of Peter cutting in with something that would upset the woman.

Brian Marks was a tall, balding and surprisingly handsome man in his late sixties. He left his desk and ushered them to comfortable chairs set around a coffee table in front of a window overlooking a park. His office was high-ceilinged and oak-panelled and it housed an enormous desk as well as the coffee table and chairs and was lined with bookshelves that complemented the panelling. They held the usual selection of law books Anna expected to find in a solicitor’s office, plus a few on art that she hadn’t.

‘Coffee?’ he enquired.

‘Your secretary has already given us some, thank you.’

‘Did she tell you I can only give you fifteen minutes? Normally I’d be only too delighted to do whatever I can to assist the police, but I have an appointment I cannot postpone. However if you’d like to come back later . . ’

‘Hopefully that won’t be necessary.’ Peter flipped through the notes he’d made at the station.

‘You were Anthony George’s and his mother’s solicitor?’

‘I was.’ A frown darkened the bland, businesslike expression. ‘Such a tragedy.’

‘In what way, Mr Marks?’

‘Anthony dying on the threshold of life. He had so much to look forward to. And then there was that terrible business in the hospital.’

‘You’re referring to the mutilation of his corpse in the mortuary?’

‘I am.’

‘How did his mother react to the news?’ Trevor had told Peter, when he’d telephoned him first thing, that the Inspector in charge of the case had never interviewed the mother, and he’d found no mention of her in the case notes at the local station.

‘She was never told, Sergeant. I was executor of both Mrs George’s and her husband’s wills. Mr George, Anthony’s father, predeceased her by twenty years. There were no relatives apart from Anthony, and as he was only ten when his father died, Mrs George turned to this firm for advice on personal matters as well as legal and financial affairs. When Anthony died I took it upon myself to identify his body, organise his funeral and, as executor of his will, settle his estate. I was ably and generously assisted by Anthony’s employer, who was aware of Mrs George’s ill health. She was in no state to attend to business matters or indeed lead the mourners at Anthony’s funeral.’

‘I understand she inherited the bulk of her son’s estate?’

‘All of it, Sergeant Collins. His father left him a substantial trust fund. By dint of judicial investment, we trebled it. The trust reverted to his mother on his death.’

‘There were no other bequests?’

‘We gave one or two items to his close friends as mementoes. There is a list in the file, but there was nothing of any great value.’

Peter referred to the notes he’d made at the local station. There was no mention of any bequests.

‘If it’s not too much trouble, I’d like to see that list.’

‘It may take Miss Wilkinson a little time to locate the file, but if you call back at the end of the day she should have it for you.’

‘I’d appreciate it. Can you confirm that Mrs George died shortly after her son?’

‘Less than two months later.’

‘And her estate?’

‘Was divided between the charities specified in her will. Both she and her husband’s wills were quite specific. They left their entire estates to each other, and in the event of their death everything reverted to their son, Anthony. They added a clause specifying two charities in the event of the demise of the entire family.’

‘And they were?’ Peter had them written down in his notebook, but he wanted to hear it from Marks.

‘Medical research charities, heart disease and cancer.’

‘They split everything between them?’

‘Apart from three separate bequests, each of twenty thousand pounds, which Mrs George made in a codicil dated the year before her death.’

‘The recipients?’

‘Her live-in cook and gardener, a married couple who had worked for the George family for over thirty years, and a daily cleaner who had worked for Mrs George’s mother for ten years before joining her.’ The solicitor gave Peter a look that might have intimidated a lesser man. ‘I answered all these questions two years ago when the police investigated the mutilation of Anthony George’s body. Has the case been reopened?’