Death of an Expert Witness

by P. D. James

  Praise for P. D. James

  “Her style is literate, her plots are complicated, her clues are abundant and fair and her solutions are intended to come as a surprise without straining credulity beyond that subtle point which is instinctively recognized and respected by addicts and practitioners alike.”

  Times Literary Supplement

  “The finest English crime novelist of her generation.”

  The Globe and Mail

  “P. D. James is one of the national treasures of British fiction. As James takes us from one life to another, her near-Dickensian scale becomes apparent.”

  Sunday Mail

  “P. D. James is unbeatable.”

  Ottawa Citizen

  “She is an addictive writer. P. D. James takes her place in the long line of those moralists who tell a story as satisfying as it is complete.”

  Anita Brookner

  “P. D. James … writes the most lethal, erudite, people-complex novels of murder and detection since Michael Innes first began and Dorothy Sayers left us.”

  Vogue

  “Few other mystery novelists can claim such complexity of characterization and density of setting, where every detail seems perfectly realized.”

  Toronto Star

  “James is simply a wonderful writer.”

  The New York Times Book Review

  Also by P. D. James

  Fiction

  Cover Her Face

  A Mind to Murder

  Unnatural Causes

  Shroud for a Nightingale

  An Unsuitable Job for a Woman

  The Black Tower

  Innocent Blood

  The Skull Beneath the Skin

  A Taste for Death

  The Children of Men

  Original Sin

  A Certain Justice

  Death in Holy Orders

  The Murder Room

  The Lighthouse

  The Private Patient

  Non-fiction

  The Maul and the Pear Tree: The Ratcliffe Highway Murders, 1811

  (with T. A. Critchley)

  Time to Be in Earnest: A Fragment of Autobiography

  Talking About Detective Fiction

  VINTAGE CANADA EDITION, 2011

  Copyright © 1977 P. D. James

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.

  Published in Canada by Vintage Canada, a division of Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto, in 2011. Originally published in hardcover in Great Britain by Faber and Faber, London, in 1977. Distributed by Random House of Canada Limited.

  Vintage Canada with colophon is a registered trademark.

  www.randomhouse.ca

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  James, P. D., 1920–

  Death of an expert witness / P. D. James.

  Originally publ.: London : Faber, 1977.

  eISBN: 978-0-307-40044-4

  I. Title.

  PR6060.A56D43 2011 823′.914 C2010-902732-9

  v3.1

  CONTENTS

  Cover

  Other Books by This Author

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Author’s Note

  BOOK ONE

  A Call to Murder

  BOOK TWO

  Death in a White Coat

  BOOK THREE

  An Experimental Man

  BOOK FOUR

  Hanged by the Neck

  BOOK FIVE

  The Clunch Pit

  About the Author

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  There is no official forensic science laboratory in East Anglia and, even if there were, it is in the highest degree improbable that it would have anything in common with Hoggatt’s Laboratory, whose staff, like all other characters in this story—even the most unpleasant—are purely imaginary and bear no resemblance to any person living or dead.

  BOOK ONE

  A CALL TO MURDER

  1

  The call had come at 6.12 precisely. It was second nature to him now to note the time by the illuminated dial of his electric bedside clock before he had switched on his lamp, a second after he had felt for and silenced the raucous insistence of the telephone. It seldom had to ring more than once, but every time he dreaded that the peal might have woken Nell. The caller was familiar, the summons expected. It was Detective Inspector Doyle. The voice, with its softly intimidating suggestion of Irish burr, came to him strong and confident, as if Doyle’s great bulk loomed over the bed.

  “Doc Kerrison?” The interrogation was surely unnecessary. Who else in this half-empty, echoing house would be answering at six-twelve in the morning? He made no reply and the voice went on.

  “We’ve got a body. On the wasteland—a clunch field—a mile north-east of Muddington. A girl. Strangulation by the look of it. It’s probably pretty straightforward but as it’s close …”

  “All right, I’ll come.” The voice expressed neither relief nor gratitude. Why should it? Didn’t he always come when summoned? He was paid well enough for his availability, but that wasn’t the only reason why he was so obsessively conscientious. Doyle, he suspected, would have respected him more if he had occasionally been less accommodating. He would have respected himself more.

  “It’s the first turn off the A142 after you leave Gibbet’s Cross. I’ll have a man posted.”

  He replaced the receiver, swung his legs out of bed and, reaching for his pencil and pad, noted the details while they were still fresh in his mind. In a clunch field. That probably meant mud, particularly after yesterday’s rain. The window was slightly open at the bottom. He pushed it open, wincing at the rasp of the wood, and put out his head. The rich loamy smell of the fen autumn night washed over his face; strong, yet fresh. The rain had stopped and the sky was a tumult of grey clouds through which the moon, now almost full, reeled like a pale, demented ghost. His mind stretched out over the deserted fields and the desolate dikes to the wide moon-bleached sands of the Wash and the creeping fringes of the North Sea. He could fancy that he smelt its medicinal tang in the rain-washed air. Somewhere out there in the darkness, surrounded by the paraphernalia of violent death, was a body. His mind recalled the familiar ambience of his trade: men moving like black shadows behind the glare of the arc-lights, the police cars tidily parked; the flap of the screens, desultory voices conferring as they watched for the first lights of his approaching car. Already they would be consulting their watches, calculating how long it would be before he could make it.

  Shutting the window with careful hands, he tugged trousers over his pyjamas and pulled a polo-necked sweater over his head. Then he picked up his torch, switched off the bedside light and made his way downstairs, treading warily and keeping close to the wall to avoid the creaking treads. But there was no sound from Eleanor’s room. He let his mind wander down the twenty yards of landing and the three stairs to the back bedroom where his sixteen-year-old daughter lay. She was always a light sleeper, uncannily sensitive even in sleep to the ring of the telephone. But she couldn’t possibly have heard. He had no need to worry about three-year-old William. Once asleep, he never woke before morning.

  Actions as well as thought were patterned. His routine never varied. He went first to the small washroom near the back door where his wellington boots, the thick red socks protruding like a pair of amputated feet, stood ready at the door. Pushing up his sleeves over the elbow, he swilled cold water over his hands and arms, then bent down and sluiced the whol
e of his head. He performed this act of almost ceremonial cleansing before and after every case. He had long ago ceased to ask himself why. It had become as comforting and necessary as a religious ritual, the brief preliminary washing which was like a dedication, the final ablution which was both a necessary chore and an absolution, as if by wiping the smell of his job from his body he could cleanse it from his mind. The water splashed heavily against the glass and, rising to fumble for a towel, he saw his face distorted, the mouth hanging, the heavily lidded eyes half hidden by glistening weeds of black hair like the surfacing visage of a drowned man. The melancholy of the early hours took hold of him. He thought: “I’m forty-five next week and what have I achieved? This house, two children, a failed marriage, and a job which I’m frightened of losing, because it’s the only thing I’ve made a success of.” The Old Rectory, inherited from his father, was unmortgaged, unencumbered. This wasn’t true, he thought, of anything else in his anxiety-ridden life. Love, the lack of it, the growing need, the sudden terrifying hope of it, was only a burden. Even his job, the territory where he moved with most assurance, was hedged with anxiety.

  As he dried his hands carefully, finger by finger, the old familiar worry returned, heavy as a morbid growth. He hadn’t yet been appointed as Home Office Pathologist in succession to old Dr. Stoddard and he very much wanted to be. The official appointment wouldn’t give him more money. The police already employed him on an item-of-service basis, and paid generously enough for each case. That and the fees for coroner’s post-mortems provided an income which was one of the reasons why his professional colleagues in the pathology department of the district general hospital both envied and resented his unpredictable absences on police work, the long days in court, the inevitable publicity.

  Yes, the appointment was important to him. If the Home Office looked elsewhere it would be difficult to justify to the Area Health Authority a continuing private arrangement with the local Force. He wasn’t even sure that they would want him.

  He knew himself to be a good forensic pathologist, reliable, more than competent professionally, almost obsessively thorough and painstaking, a convincing and unflappable witness. The Force knew that their meticulously erected edifices of proof wouldn’t fall to pieces under cross-examination when he was in the witness box, although he sometimes suspected that they found him too scrupulous for complete comfort. But he hadn’t the easy masculine camaraderie, the blend of cynicism and machismo which had bound old Doc Stoddard so strongly to the Force. If they had to do without him he wouldn’t be greatly missed, and he doubted whether they would put themselves out to keep him.

  The garage light was blinding. The overhead door swung up easily to his touch and the light splayed out over the gravel of the drive and the unkempt verges of silvered grass. But at least the light wouldn’t wake Nell. Her bedroom was at the back of the house. Before switching on the engine he studied his maps. Muddington. It was a town on the edge of his area, about seventeen miles to the north-west, less than half an hour’s drive each way if he were lucky. If the laboratory scientists were there already—and Lorrimer, the Senior Biologist, never missed a homicide if he could help it—then there mightn’t be much for him to do. Allow, say, an hour at the scene, and with luck he would be home again before Nell woke and she need never know that he had been away. He switched off the garage light. Carefully, as if the gentleness of his touch could somehow silence the engine, he turned on the ignition. The Rover moved slowly into the night.

  2

  Standing motionless behind the curtains on the front landing, her right hand cupped round the pale flicker of her night light, Eleanor Kerrison watched the sudden red blaze of the Rover’s rear lights as the car stopped at the gate before turning left and accelerating out of sight. She waited until the glare of the headlights had finally faded from view. Then she turned and made her way along the corridor to William’s room. She knew that he wouldn’t have woken. His sleep was a sensuous gluttony of oblivion. And while he slept she knew that he was safe, that she could be free of anxiety. To watch him then was such a mingled joy of yearning and pity that sometimes, frightened of her waking thoughts but more afraid of the nightmares of sleep, she would carry her night light into his bedroom and crouch by the cot for an hour or more, her eyes fixed on his sleeping face, her restlessness soothed by his peace.

  Although she knew that he wouldn’t wake, she turned the handle of the door as carefully as if expecting it to explode. The night light, burning steadily in its saucer, was unnecessary, its yellow gleam extinguished by the moonlight which streamed through the uncurtained windows. William, bagged in his grubby sleeping suit, lay as always on his back, both arms flung above his head. His head had flopped to one side and the thin neck, stretched and so still that she could see the pulse beat, looked too fragile to bear the weight of his head. His lips were slightly parted, and she could neither see nor hear the thin whisper of breath. As she watched he suddenly opened sightless eyes, rolled them upwards, then closed them with a sigh and fell again into his little semblance of death.

  She closed the door softly behind her and went back to her own room next door. Dragging the eiderdown from her bed, she wrapped it round her shoulders and shuffled her way down the landing to the top of the stairs. The heavily studded oak banister curved down into the darkness of the hall from which the tick of the grandfather clock sounded as unnaturally loud and ominous as a time bomb. The atmosphere of the house came up to her nostrils, sour as a stale vacuum flask, redolent with the sad effluent of stodgy clerical dinners. Placing the night light against the wall she sat down on the top stair, humping the eiderdown high over her shoulders and gazing into the darkness. The stair carpet was gritty to her bare soles. Miss Willard never vacuumed it, pleading that her heart couldn’t stand the strain of lugging the cleaner from step to step, and her father never appeared to notice the drabness or dirtiness of his house. He was, after all, so seldom there. Sitting rigid in the darkness she thought of her father. Perhaps he was already at the scene of crime. It depended how far he had to drive. If it were on the very fringe of his area he might not be back until lunchtime.

  But what she hoped was that he would return before breakfast so that he would find her here, crouched lonely and exhausted on the top stair, waiting for him, frightened because he had left her alone. He would put away the car quietly, leaving the garage open in case the thud of the door woke her, then sneak in like a thief at the back door. She would hear the swirl of water from the downstairs washroom, his footsteps on the tessellated floor of the hall. Then he would look up and see her. He would come running up the stairs, torn between anxiety for her and fear of disturbing Miss Willard, his face suddenly old with weariness and concern as he put his arms round her trembling shoulders.

  “Nell, darling, how long have you been here? You shouldn’t be out of bed. You’ll get cold. Come on, old girl, there’s nothing to be frightened of now. I’m back. Look, I’ll take you back to bed again and you try to get some sleep. I’ll see to the breakfast. Suppose I bring it up on a tray in about half an hour. How would you like that?”

  And he would guide her back to her room, cajoling, murmuring reassurance, trying to pretend that he wasn’t frightened, frightened that she would start to cry for her mother, that Miss Willard would appear, censorious and whining, complaining that she had to get her sleep, that the precarious little household would fall apart and he would be parted from William. It was William he loved, William he couldn’t bear to lose. And he could only keep William and stop the court from giving Mummy custody if she were at home to help care for her brother.

  She thought about the day ahead. It was Wednesday, a grey day. Not a black day when she wouldn’t see her father at all, but not a yellow day like Sunday, when, unless on call, he might be there most of the time. In the morning, immediately after breakfast, he would be at the public mortuary doing the post-mortem. There would be other autopsies too, those who had died in hospital, the old, the suicides, the
accident victims. But the body he was probably examining now would be first on the mortuary table. Murder has priority. Wasn’t that what they always said at the Lab? She mused, but without real curiosity, on what he might be doing at this very moment to that unknown cadaver, young or old, male or female. Whatever he was doing, the body wouldn’t feel it, wouldn’t know about it. The dead had nothing to be frightened of anymore, and there was nothing to fear from them. It was the living who held the power to hurt. And suddenly two shadows moved in the darkness of the hall, and she heard her mother’s voice, pitched high, frighteningly unfamiliar, a strained, cracked, alien voice.

  “Always your job! Your bloody job! And my God, no wonder you’re good at it. You haven’t the guts to be a real doctor. You made one wrong diagnosis early on and that was the end, wasn’t it? You couldn’t take responsibility for living bodies, blood that can flow, nerves that can actually feel. All you’re fit for is messing about with the dead. It makes you feel good, doesn’t it, the way they defer to you? The phone calls at all hours of the day and night, the police escort. Never mind that I’m buried alive here in this bloody fen with your children. You don’t even see me anymore. I’d be more interesting to you if I were dead and laid out on your slab. At least you’d be forced to take some notice of me.”

  Then the low, defensive mumble of her father’s voice, dispirited, abject. She had listened in the darkness and wanted to call out to him: “Don’t answer her like that! Don’t sound so defeated! Can’t you understand that it only makes her despise you more?”

  His words had come to her in snatches, barely audible. “It’s my job. It’s what I do best. It’s all that I can do.” And then, more clearly. “It’s what keeps us.”

  “Not me. Not any longer.” And then the slam of the door. The memory was so vivid that for a second she thought she heard the echo of the slam. She stumbled to her feet, clutching the eiderdown around her, and opened her mouth to call to them. But then she saw that the hall was empty. There was nothing but the faint image of the stained glass in the front door where the moonlight streamed through, the ticking of the clock, the bundle of coats hanging from the hallstand. She sank back again on to the stair.