The Silent Dead

by Keith Nixon

  “Looking good, Sol,” he said to himself in the rearview mirror.

  ***

  Clough paused in front of spring-loaded double doors which led into the theatre. “You’re aware I’ll be looking to see whether the baby was murdered or not, Sol?”

  “I know.”

  Infanticide fell under the umbrella of manslaughter and had a much shorter sentence than murder. In the early 1920s, when the law first came into force, killing a baby wasn’t viewed as severely as it was now. The opinion of the time was that babies didn’t suffer as much as adults. And, as babies were mouths to feed rather than a means to put food on the table, they were deemed of lesser importance to the family unit. Although the legislation had been addressed several times since, the inferior view of babies in the eyes of the law persisted for some time.

  “It’s just some people find this a difficult subject,” said Clough.

  “Parents, you mean?”

  “That and, well, your situation.”

  Situation, an interesting way to describe Gray’s past. His missing son.

  “I’ll be fine.”

  “I just wanted to make sure,” said Clough.

  “I appreciate it, Ben, but let’s see where the evidence takes us.”

  Clough, apparently satisfied, used his shoulder to push his way through into the examination room then waited for Gray to pass before following, releasing the door and allowing it to swing shut.

  The space was all white tiles and stainless steel, dazzling spotlights, glittering surgical instruments, and gaping drains; everything designed for an easy clean. The air was icy and stank of disinfectant.

  “Good morning,” said Clough to a person already in the theatre, holding a camera, there to take shots as directed for the PM report. She was small and slight – it was hard to be more specific about build because, like Clough and Gray, she wore a full-length white evidence suit, a hat over her hair and a face mask.

  “This is Gill,” said Clough.

  For important or high-profile PMs, the examination room could have five or six people present, including the crime scene manager and other detectives. Not today.

  Most pathologists employed a stenographer to take down their notes, however Clough preferred to make a verbal record on tape and transcribe the details himself. Slower, but he liked to go over his own information.

  The viewing area, where Gray usually tried to witness the post-mortem (if he absolutely had to attend), was separated from Clough’s workspace by a large plate-glass window. That area was plain in comparison, as if the lion’s share of the budget had been reserved for the dead. The walls were washed in a lemon yellow; rows of uncomfortable chairs fixed to the floor, all facing the same direction – towards the window – making the spectacle of evisceration difficult to avoid.

  The corpse, but no box, was already present. A tiny body wrapped in white, made to appear even smaller by the size of the gurney. Clough placed himself one side of the table. Gray stood opposite to get a clear view of proceedings. He shuddered and not with the cold.

  “You okay, Sol?” asked Clough.

  “Fine,” lied Gray.

  Clough turned to Gill, said, “Ready to proceed?”

  “Whenever you are.”

  A microphone suspended from the ceiling hung near the pathologist. “Let’s see what we have, shall we?” He clicked a button, turned the recording on. “The body is wrapped in what appears to be a muslin cloth.” Clough gently touched the binding, pulling it back slightly. The baby’s skin was brown and dry, drawn tight across the face, shrivelled and seemingly tough as leather.

  “Would you mind?” asked Clough.

  As she leaned in to take a couple of shots at different angles Clough explained, “Mummification occurs in hot, dry conditions like a desert. The skin dries and the tissues harden rather than putrefy, as is typical.”

  “We don’t have deserts in this country, Ben.”

  “I’m aware of that. A loft or chimney would also be a suitable location, if that is the best description. Somewhere hot and draughty. The person must also be thin – they are more likely to cool and desiccate than someone larger. A baby is a perfect example. Newborns are relatively sterile so they are less susceptible to putrefaction and more to mummification under the right conditions.

  Clough tried to peel back the outer white cloth.

  “This is the first time I’ve seen a mummified baby. It used to happen a lot, apparently. Back when having a child out of wedlock was shameful. Sometimes the babies were stillborn or died soon after birth as the mother struggled alone. It was even possible for the baby to be murdered. The corpse would be hidden in the loft or beneath floorboards as burial wasn’t an option.”

  “Good God,” said Gray.

  “It occurred more often than you’d think. We could conceivably be looking at somebody older than both of us.” Gray was pushing fifty, Clough at least five years behind. “As social attitudes shifted mummified bodies were found less. I know my predecessor, Dr Jenkinson, assessed several cases like this. Not much bothered him, but dead babies were definitely one of his weak spots.”

  The outer binding wasn’t coming easily. “It looks like the baby has been swaddled,” said Gray. The cloth tightly wound around the youngster, keeping the arms down. He remembered doing this with his own children. At first, he’d been uncomfortable with the process, but it was supposed to calm a restless infant and tired parents will try almost anything. To his surprise it had worked.

  Clough reached for a pair of scissors. Slowly he snipped the side of the cloth, along the length of the body. Eventually he was able to remove the material and place it into a clear plastic evidence bag. Beneath was a baby grow, a white one-piece full-length outfit. There was colour on the chest area. Gray got closer. “Teletubbies,” he said. Four weird-looking doll-like cartoon figures of various heights, arms raised, waving and smiling.

  Gill took several photos of the body from different angles, the baby grow and the Teletubbies print.

  “What?” asked Clough.

  “It’s a kid’s programme. Very popular in the ‘90s onwards.”

  “I must have missed that one.”

  “There could be a date on the image, from a copyright.”

  Clough peered closely. “You’re right, there is. It says 2009. So, the child is no more than ten years old.”

  Clough cut the baby grow away then removed the fabric, so the baby lay naked. The clothing went into a separate evidence bag which Clough sealed. “Female,” said Clough. So, Draper’s guess had been correct. Gill took some photos.

  The pathologist carefully lifted the baby into a set of scales and noted the weight. Next, Clough measured her length. “She’d have been quite small at birth, in the lower quartile of what was deemed healthy. Possibly she was slightly premature, or the mother was undernourished.

  “The mummification process typically preserves the body beautifully.” Not a word Gray would have chosen. “If there are any external injuries we should see them clearly.” Clough pointed to the right side of the baby’s stomach, low down above the hip. “This is where putrefaction starts, the gut is full of bacteria. When you die the bacteria exit the bowel and enter the abdominal cavity, followed by the blood vessels. The abdominal wall is close to the intestine which is why we typically see it here as a green mark, like a stain but,” Clough leaned in, scanned the torso, “I can’t see anything.” Neither could Gray, but it wasn’t his place to say.

  Clough bent right down to painstakingly examine the body, pausing periodically for photographs. He carefully lifted and turned the child over, checking every inch of the tiny corpse. Eventually he straightened and said, “No obvious signs of bruising or any marks at all. There’s some mould.” Clough pointed to a white mark on the baby’s back. “But that’s not unusual. Attack by pests hasn’t occurred. Sometimes beetles and moths get their mouths in.”

  “Let’s be thankful for small mercies,” said Gray, the image of feasting bugs s
tark in his mind.

  “Time to go inside.” Clough lifted a scalpel. Gray didn’t feel too good. “First, we’ve got to determine whether the baby had lived at all – no life, then no death.” One breath and the baby would have been deemed to have survived the birth, then manslaughter or murder could be considered. But if the baby hadn’t lived then it couldn’t be killed. “As much as is feasible, of course, given the state of the body,” said Clough. “If the baby expired in the womb the corpse would show early decomposition, the mummification makes it impossible to know that now. So, I’ll have to examine the skull.”

  Clough sliced into the leathery skin. Gray couldn’t look, even just the sound was enough to put his teeth on edge. Eventually Clough said, “The skull seems fine, perfectly normal. The bones are aligned. A death early in the pregnancy would result in the plates overlapping or collapsing. No sign of that.” Throughout the process Gill had been snapping photographs, seemingly unaffected. Not so for Gray.

  “You all right, Sol?” asked Clough again. Gray held up a hand. If he opened his mouth, he felt like he’d throw up. “I’ll continue then.”

  Gray glanced over. The pathologist turned his attention to the chest cavity. Gray dry swallowed, trying to force down the pressure building in his throat and set his eyes on the nearest white-tiled wall.

  Again, the separation of the dried skin, then the whirring of a saw followed by a sharp clicking, like the sound of breaking chicken bones.

  “Hmm, the lungs are like dried, shrivelled prunes,” said Clough.

  Gray could stand no more and he marched out of the theatre to get some fresh air.

  ***

  A half hour or so later Clough entered the office. Gray was seated. “Sorry about that,” he said.

  “Not your fault,” replied Clough. “Sometimes I forget others don’t view a body the same way I do. You’re feeling all right now, I hope?”

  “Better. How do you do that? Every day, cut up cadavers?”

  “I find the human body fascinating.” Clough sat behind his desk. “I take it as a privilege to be able to understand what happened to people and give their relatives an explanation. Sometimes its closure for them.”

  “We don’t know who the girl is.”

  “We don’t know yet, Sol. But I’m sure you will find out soon.”

  “I’ll do my best.” Gray sighed. “Anyway, what else did you find?”

  “I’ve sent off some samples for toxicological, bacterial and viral checks. At the moment I’d say there are several potential causes of death. Maybe a bacterial infection, or shaken baby syndrome, abusive head trauma as it’s called these days, but it’s impossible to tell because of the condition of the brain. Or SIDS – sudden infant death syndrome.”

  “SIDS is when there’s no obvious cause of death, right?”

  “No obvious unnatural cause of death. Back in the 80s and 90s SIDS was statistically significant, but it’s been in decline for years since awareness of the actual basis for the event has increased.”

  “I remember,” said Gray. “Not putting the baby face down, no smoking in the house, keep the room temperature Goldilocks.” It had been a major worry for Gray and his wife. He remembered checking on both his kids constantly and monitoring a thermometer to ensure they didn’t overheat.

  “Goldilocks?”

  “Not too hot, not too cold but just right.”

  “Is that some joke between parents?”

  “No, just me and Kate.”

  “Oh, sorry.”

  “My fault, not yours. Go on.”

  “Anyway, pathologists got into the habit of presuming SIDS so it became a catch all. We’re better now. Until I get back the results from the analyses, I’ll be marking cause of death as unascertained.”

  “Okay, thanks Ben.”

  “If I receive any further pertinent data, I’ll give you an update.” Gray stood. “By the way, have you heard about Amos Jenkinson?”

  Jenkinson was Clough’s predecessor and someone Gray had worked with for years until his retirement. Gray said, “Last I was aware he was struggling with Alzheimer’s. That was at least a year ago, maybe more.” Gray hadn’t had any contact with Jenkinson for a while, not since a cold case took him to the retired pathologist’s house in Fordwich. Once that disease took hold, there was no getting free. It was like a black hole, sucking every brain function into the irrecoverable depths. His daughter, Fiona, had been caring for him. Gray didn’t know her well; Jenkinson had kept home and work life separate.

  “He’s got cancer now, terminal apparently. He’s weeks, maybe even just days left.”

  “Good God.”

  “I only learned from a colleague.”

  “I’ll give Fiona a call.” He still had her number in his phone.

  “I’d have thought she’d have told me herself,” said Clough.

  “Do you two know each other?”

  “Once, years back. Anyway,” Clough forced a smile. “Good luck tracing the baby’s parents.”

  Gray left Clough’s office and made his way through the hospital. Once he was in the car park he rang Fiona.

  She answered. “Hello?”

  “Fiona, its Solomon Gray. I’ve just heard about your father. I’m really sorry.”

  Fiona sighed heavily down the speaker. “Thanks for getting in touch. The Alzheimer’s has got a lot worse since you were last here. He barely remembers anything these days.”

  “How are you coping?”

  “It’s not easy. Bits of him are starting to shut down. He can’t walk as well as he used to. It’s as if his brain is forgetting how to carry out subconscious functions.”

  “God, that’s awful.”

  “I’m glad you rang. I’ve been struggling to contact everyone given how much has been going on. A couple of days ago I learned that Dad’s bowel cancer had returned. There was no point telling him, of course, he’d have no memory of the conversation a minute later. Frankly, it might be for the best.”

  “Ben said he doesn’t have much time left.”

  “Not Ben Clough?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh.”

  “Is that a problem? We weren’t gossiping.”

  “No, no it’s fine. I’m glad he did. We haven’t spoken for ages. It’s just a surprise to hear his name is all. If you want to come over and see Dad one last time, this is it.”

  “Maybe.” Gray had seen how dementia and cancer ravaged people. Two of his grandparents had suffered. He reached his car.

  “I wouldn’t blame you at all if you just want to remember him how he was and didn’t visit. Dad’s barely the person he was.”

  Now Gray felt guilty. Jenkinson wouldn’t be aware of Gray, but Fiona would. “No, I’ll definitely be there soon.”

  “That would be great, thanks Sol.” Gray could hear the relief in her voice. “Don’t leave it long, though.”

  Nine

  Gray headed over to Pfeffer’s desk and passed her the USB stick that Pickersgill had given him yesterday with the A&E CCTV footage on. “Can you pull an image off here please, and run an ID check. The time is 11.39am, male, ginger, young. He’s getting out of a taxi. Also, run the plate and talk to the firm, find out where the kid was picked up? And check social media, he’s more than likely to have something like a Facebook account.”

  “Who are we talking about here?” asked Pfeffer as she took the stick.

  “Sorry.” Gray’s mind was still on the baby and Jenkinson. “This is the kid who was reported as being attacked by the dog.”

  “Okay, makes sense now. I’ll get right on it.”

  Worthington was noisily clanking a teaspoon in a mug of something hot in the kitchen area. Gray went over. The Geordie didn’t bother to offer Gray anything.

  “A word, please,” said Gray.

  “Sure.”

  “In my office.”

  “Ah.” Worthington pushed off.

  “Do you want me at all, sir?” Ibbotson asked as they passed by him.

/>   “Did I ask you, Ted?”

  “No, sir.”

  “There you go then.”

  Gray closed the door. Worthington remained standing, blew on the surface of his drink, not looking at Gray. “What’s this about?”

  “St. Peter’s yesterday.”

  “Ibbotson told me what you said. I’ll be a good boy from now on.” He turned to leave.

  “It’s not that.”

  Worthington turned back, gave Gray an unimpressed stare like his teenage daughter used to, years ago. Surly, disrespectful. “Can’t wait to hear what, then.”

  “I had a call from Mrs Draper. She claimed you tried to kick her dog.”

  “That’s an exaggeration. He was attempting to hump my leg, so I shook him away.”

  “She says differently.”

  “Were you there? Did you see it? No, you didn’t. Therefore, it’s her word against mine.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “Got proof?” Gray didn’t answer. “That’s what I thought.” Suddenly, Worthington grinned. “If that’s everything, sir, I’ll get back to my desk.” He walked out, leaving the door open.

  Gray flopped into his chair, faced the wall, his back to the detective’s office. His phone bleeped. A text telling him he had voicemail. “Inspector Gray, Alexander Vardie of Social Services returning your call. Please ring me back when you’re free.”

  Gray found Vardie’s number in his recents list, stored it, dialed but got his voicemail. “And this is Inspector Gray, trying to contact you again.” After breaking the connection he returned his attention to the PNC, searched for any dog related incidents in Thanet.

  Nothing.

  “There you are, Sol.” Bethany Underwood, standing at Gray’s door. “Have you got five minutes?”

  “Sure,” said Gray, attempting to sound mildly pleased to see her. It was maybe three months since they’d last spoken. He hadn’t even known she was pregnant until after she’d gone to take the time off.

  He knew Underwood as slim, verging on that bit too skinny, with frizzy, bleach blonde hair and a nervous disposition. Her nails were bitten to the quick and she furiously smoked whenever she took a break.