by J. F. Penn
Jamie considered his words, her thoughts flashing to Polly. She realized that she believed a similar truth, but from a different angle. Her daughter wasn’t defined by her broken body any more than these were actual people that Day-Conti worked on. Once consciousness left with death, the body was a mere shell, so why did this instinctively feel wrong?
She walked closer to the cadaver, bending slightly to look into the partially-exposed folds of its brain. From one angle the face was intact and from the other, the cranium was open, displaying the preserved brain tissue. The body looked as if it was in the process of being dissected where it sat, the shoulder muscles on one side partially exposed. Some of the right wrist had been opened so the tendons and veins could be seen, like a belated suicide attempt.
Rowan moved back as Jamie deliberately invaded his personal space. She had read in the file that he was the son of a family similar to the Nevilles, who were appalled at his recent life choices and the alternative world he now chose to inhabit. Eton, Oxford, and now Hoxton, Rowan had become an artist dissecting bodies while indulging in body modification of his own design. It was extreme as rebellion went, but Jamie couldn’t blame him from trying to escape his past, since she tried so often to forget her own.
“What else have you got here?” Jamie asked as she straightened.
“Follow me,” Rowan said, leading them through a labyrinth of metal walls, until they rounded a corner into another workspace. Jamie blinked, trying to identify what she was seeing.
“This is what we call the explosion technique,” Rowan said.
It was a decapitated head, plastinated in the same way as the other cadaver, so that it was a tan-color, preserved and dried. The brain sat intact with eyeballs staring ahead, tongue poking out from a deconstructed mouth. The rest of the head was peeled away in layers, skull carved in half with teeth intact grinning outwards. The face, skin and lips were peeled further out, fanned like a flasher in a horror movie, exposing what was meant to be hidden and intimate.
Jamie stood looking at the head, examining her emotional response to it. Logically it should be stomach churning, disturbing to the point of nausea like the worst murder scenes. But it was actually so far removed from anything you would normally see that it did indeed become objectified art instead of flesh. It was clean, sterile, ultimately fake-looking. Jamie had seen the decapitated heads of murder victims, and they were never as clinical as this.
“I am driven to view the body as a receptacle,” Rowan said, waiting for their response. “As a mere container for who we truly are. Our skin, bone and physical flesh is but nothing in this life, only a carrier for our soul.”
Jamie turned to him. “And what did Jenna think of all this?” she asked.
Rowan sat down heavily on a wooden chair, rubbing his hand along his jaw. He sighed.
“Jenna was a lawyer,” he eventually said, his strident tone now gone. “We met at a body-mod event. She was researching the legal status of human body parts, consent for medical research and how that fitted with the use of bodies for art. There was an artist in the late 90s, Anthony Noel-Kelly, who was found guilty of stealing specimens from the Royal College of Surgeons. He and his accomplice were the first people in British history to be convicted of stealing body parts, even though the trade in bodies was centuries old. The body parts were classed as property because they were preparations, so there was actual work applied to the cadavers. Ironically, it would have been legal if the bodies hadn’t been worked on. Jenna was exploring those legal issues as part of her specialization. When I learned of her interest, I showed her the artistic side of the anatomical world and one night, she stayed over. We’ve been seeing each other on and off for a while now, not exclusive or anything, but she was special. There was something different about her.”
Rowan’s voice trailed off.
“Not exclusive?” Jamie asked.
“No, we agreed to see other people, and that was fine with me, although lately I’d been thinking about her more seriously.”
“Did she model for you?”
Rowan shook his head. “No, she would never do that.” He went quiet. Jamie waited, aware of the photo from Jenna’s flat in her pocket. After a full minute, he continued speaking. “But I couldn’t help myself. I had taken some pictures of her naked. She looked so beautiful and I wanted to use them as inspiration for a new piece. A body came in, almost as perfect as hers and I posed it like she had lain for me on the bed.”
“Before you carved it up, you mean,” Jamie said, unable to stop herself.
“Fuck you,” Rowan said, slamming his fist down onto his leg. Jamie didn’t even flinch. “This is art, this is what collectors pay for. It’s an evocative piece, imbued with emotion. I had a particular buyer lined up who was willing to pay a lot for it, but Jenna was furious when she found out what I’d done.”
“What happened?” Jamie prompted.
“We had a huge fight, a real screaming match. She said she would find out where the woman’s body had come from and make sure she was buried with dignity. She was going to stop the sale. Jenna refused to be the inspiration for what she saw as the abuse of another woman’s dead body. That was two days ago, and that’s the last time I saw her, although there have been angry texts from both sides, I’ll admit that.”
Missinghall looked up from his notes.
“Your name was down for the Gala Dinner at the Royal College of Surgeons last night.”
Day-Conti nodded. “I think she wanted me to go as a ‘fuck you’ to her parents who were attending as well.” He put his head in his hands. “I wish I’d gone now. Maybe she’d still be safe if I’d been there.”
“Why didn’t you go?” Jamie asked.
“To punish her, perhaps. She was disrespecting my work and I couldn’t bear to be there if she was going to ignore me anyway, not when my appearance would cause such a stir amongst that stuck-up crowd. I’ll admit it was a power-play.” His hands clenched into fists. “But damn, she was good at winding me up.”
Day-Conti must have realized what he looked like and relaxed his aggression, taking a deep breath.
“The piece she objected to,” Jamie asked. “Were you were going to sell it anyway?”
“It’s what I do, Detective,” Rowan snapped. “The pinnacle of my art is to have it displayed in a collection, for other people’s pleasure. I don’t do this to have the final piece hidden away or buried, to rot and disappear into the earth like any other mundane piece of flesh. For this woman, the best way to be remembered was to be immortalized. This way her beauty won’t ever fade.”
“I’d like to see it if that’s OK with you?” Jamie said as her phone vibrated in her pocket with a text message from the investigation team back at the station.
As Rowan led the way into another section of the warehouse, Jamie checked the text. Day-Conti financials show that his gallery is on the verge of bankruptcy. Family have disowned him. He desperately needs cash. Here was motive indeed, money on top of art.
Jamie shivered. It was colder down the back of the warehouse, and the lights were dim. They rounded a corner and saw a rectangular tent, made of opaque plastic, like a containment area of some kind.
“She’s in there,” he said, his voice hushed. “I’m still working on her.”
Jamie pushed through the curtains and into the tiny space. On a lab table lay the plastinated body of a perfectly beautiful young woman, her breasts round and pert, nipples hard, with one side partially dissected, the same as the picture she had found at Jenna’s flat. The woman’s arms were held above her head, her legs provocatively crossed, as if tied, but willingly. Jamie could definitely see the echo of the nude picture of Jenna, but with one huge difference. The woman’s head had been sawn off and the arms cut off at the elbows.
Rowan saw what she was looking at.
“I wanted her body to be the focus, not her face. This way she can be everywoman, a fantasy.”
Jamie was struggling to contain her anger at such a
desecration, yet she argued with herself that those feelings didn’t make logical sense. This body was no longer alive, yet the callous treatment of the flesh was abhorrent to her. There was no sense of a person here, even less so because the face was missing. But it was the objectification of a woman mutilated and displayed without her consent. It was pornographic in some way, and yet how could anyone find this arousing?
“Has this collector bought from you before?” Jenna asked, keeping her voice even.
Rowan nodded.
“I don’t know who they are though. They buy through a dealer, but I know this one likes vanilla skin, no mods at all. They do specify the partial dissection though, in order to see inside the bodies, always to their hearts.”
Jamie shook her head, sure that the buyer would be untraceable, but her sicko alarm was blaring.
“I’ll be needing all your permits, because I just can’t believe this is in any way legal.”
Rowan nodded. “I’ve been investigated before, Detective, based on a nosy neighbor’s curiosity. So you’ve got all the paperwork for me at the local station. They know what I’m doing here and it’s all legal, I promise you.”
Jamie walked out of the tent, away from the disturbance of the body as Missinghall went into the tiny space after her. She heard his muttered expletives and knew how he felt. She had seen a lot of bodies, in various physical states because of violent death, but this casual arrangement of sex and death seemed much more of a violation.
She led the way back into the main gallery, then turned.
“So, apart from the fight over that piece, you and Jenna had a good relationship?” Jamie asked, trying to refocus on other aspects of the case.
“She wasn’t my usual type, you know, vanilla skin and all that, but she had a fucked up mind. I’m modified on the outside, but Jenna, she was pretty mod inside. That girl had some problems.” Rowan shook his head. “You should talk to her family, right. They’re a bunch of screw-ups. She hated them, did you know that?”
Jamie remained impassive. “So where were you last night?”
“I was here working alone until around 10pm and then I went to Torture Garden.”
Jamie raised an eyebrow.
“Seriously?” Rowan said, his voice rising an octave with annoyance and frustration. “Check it out. It’s all consensual and legal. Just because it’s a fetish club, you reckon something evil’s going on, right? At Torture Garden, there are lines you can’t cross, it’s not just a free for all. Seriously, I’d expect you to be more open-minded. We just want to express our individuality and that makes us far more normal than the rest of you. If you want to find some really fucked up individuals, look at the suits and ties and those who can only express themselves after drugs or alcohol. ”
“Did you know Jenna was pregnant?” Jamie asked, not giving Rowan a moment to recover from his tirade.
He looked shocked. “Shit. No.” He ran his hands over his scalp, rubbing the short hair upright. “Really? You think it was mine?”
Jamie could see that he really hadn’t known about it. Her inner radar was going off over many things in this house of plastinated horror, but her gut told her that he hadn’t known about the baby. He needed the money and he had motive around the sale of the female torso, and he definitely had the skills to carve up Jenna’s body. But if he hadn’t known about the pregnancy, there was no reason to extract her uterus. She’d have to clear his alibi by checking out the cameras at Torture Garden, but she didn’t think it necessary to take him in. She raised an eyebrow at Missinghall and he shook his head, clearly feeling the same way.
“Thank you for your time, Rowan,” Jamie said. “Don’t go far though, will you?”
He shook his head, still reeling from the news of the pregnancy. “Of course, I’ll be here. Please Detective, let me know if I can help in any way. You might not approve of what I do, but I loved Jenna.”
Jamie saw tears welling in his eyes as he turned away to show them out. They needed to speak to the other man in Jenna’s life. Could an affair have led to her death?
Chapter 6
The offices of Leighton Bowen Winstone-Smyth were situated in the prestigious row of law firms on the north side of Lincoln’s Inn Fields, just across the square from the Hunterian Museum. How convenient, Jamie thought, as she rang the bell on the imposing front door. Missinghall had returned to base to check out Day-Conti’s alibi, so she had returned alone to question Jenna’s employer and, possibly, her lover. The door was opened by an office junior, dressed in a grey suit that was just on the right side of being too small.
“I’m here to see Michael Bowen,” Jamie said, flashing her badge and as she did so, a door opened further inside and a voice called out.
“Let the Detective in, please, Michelle.”
A man stepped into the hallway as Jamie entered, her eyes adjusting to the changing light.
“Michael Bowen,” he said, holding out his hand. “Come in, Detective. How can I help you?”
Jamie shook his hand firmly. Bowen was around six foot three, every inch of him perfectly turned out. His black skin demonstrated Afro-Caribbean roots but his cultured voice and the finely cut, designer suit betrayed his current allegiance to the City. Serious brown eyes showed curiosity at her presence but he was clearly used to dealing with the police and he displayed no trace of anxiety about being questioned.
“I’m here about Jenna Neville,” Jamie said, looking around his private office at the ubiquitous bookshelves full of leather bound volumes. Even though most legal research was done online these days, places like this couldn’t quite let go of the old traditions.
“Jenna?” Bowen replied, confused. “Is she alright? I’d assumed you were here about one of our open cases.” He sat down, indicating a chair on the other side of the desk. Jamie sat and Bowen leant forward, placing his hands on the desk. Jamie saw the golden glint of his wedding ring, stark against his perfect dark skin and buffed nails.
“Jenna was found dead this morning, sir.”
Bowen froze, one hand lifting towards his mouth and, as he turned away slightly, his dark eyes shifted from Jamie to one of the bookcases.
“My God, how?”
“I can tell you that she was murdered, but we’re still in the initial stages of the investigation, which is why I’m here to talk to you.”
“Of course, whatever I can do.” His voice trailed off, and Jamie noticed his eyes flicking again to the bookcase. She followed his line of sight to where a few volumes looked scuffed and more worn than the others.
“May I ask about your relationship with Jenna, Mr Bowen?”
He nodded. “Of course, she was a brilliant young lawyer, perceptive, original. She was doing a private research project into the legality of using bodies and body parts in research, as well as art. She had quite the passion for it, as well as a keen legal mind.”
Jamie nodded. “And what about your - more personal - relationship?”
Bowen looked at her sharply and Jamie could see that he wouldn’t lie about this minor truth, suspecting he had bigger secrets to hide.
“Yes, we had an affair,” he replied, meeting Jamie’s eyes with no trace of embarrassment. “It wasn’t long, and we finished it, by mutual agreement I would add, about three weeks ago. I was happy for it to continue in an ad hoc manner as it was mutually pleasurable, but Jenna moved on pretty fast.” Bowen was twisting his wedding ring as he spoke. Jamie looked pointedly at it and he noticed her glance. “We all have our secrets, Detective, and I’m sure you have yours.”
Bowen’s brown eyes were piercing now, and Jamie caught a glimpse of the man he could clearly be in the courtroom, a formidable opponent. She could also see why Jenna would be attracted to such a man. There was a current of danger under the silk cravat, a tension of strength and sensuality under his refined speech. Perks of the job indeed, she thought.
“Did you know she was pregnant?” Jamie asked.
“No,” he said slowly, and Jamie thought th
ere was a hint of disappointment in his voice. “We always used protection so I know it wasn’t mine. I may play the field, but I’m not so stupid as to have some bastard child when my marriage is so important to my professional life.”
Jamie pitied his wife in that moment, but his steely ambition was also impressive in its single-mindedness.
“Do you know whose it might have been?” Jamie asked.
Bowen shrugged. “Maybe that so-called artist boyfriend of hers. Did you know she was investigating him secretly, trying to find out about his supply of bodies? She was obsessed by it, and she suspected something much bigger than what he was involved in.” He hesitated. “Look, I think she was onto something because I received a threat in the mail yesterday.”
“Why haven’t you shown it to the police?”
“In the nature of our work, threats are regular occurrences and of course I know our legal rights. We have private security in the building and you know as well as I do that the police are unable to act on anonymous threats alone. But this letter was unusual.”
“May I see it?” Jamie asked, unsurprised when Bowen walked to the bookshelf, pulling the worn books away to reveal a safe. With his back protecting the code, he opened the safe and removed a letter.
Jamie pulled on sterile gloves from her bag and took the envelope. The address label had been printed and stuck on and the postmark was from the Aldwych, just round the corner from the offices where they stood now. She tugged out a piece of paper from within the envelope. It was a picture from the Hunterian Museum, one of the teaching models, a torso with limbs sawn off strikingly similar to the artwork that Rowan Day-Conti had shown her. At the top was printed ‘Memento Mori.’
