by P. D. James
“Do you know yet who she is?”
“Not yet. There’s no diary in the bag. That kind don’t keep diaries. But I shall know in about half an hour.”
He turned to Lorrimer. “The exhibits should be at the Lab by nine or thereabouts. You’ll give this priority?”
Lorrimer’s voice was harsh. “Murder gets priority. You know that.”
Doyle’s exultant, self-satisfied bellow jangled Howarth’s nerves. “Thank God something does! You’re taking your time over the Gutteridge case. I was in the Biology Department yesterday and Bradley said the report wasn’t ready; he was working on a case for the defence. We all know the great fiction that the Lab is independent of the police and I’m happy to go along with it most of the time. But old Hoggatt founded the place as a police lab, and when the chips are down that’s what it’s all about. So do me a favour. Get moving with this one for me. I want to get chummy and get him quickly.”
He was rocking gently on his heels, his smiling face uplifted to the dawn like a happy dog sniffing at the air, euphoric with the exhilaration of the hunt. It was odd, thought Howarth, that he didn’t recognize the cold menace in Lorrimer’s voice.
“Hoggatt’s does an occasional examination for the defence if they ask us and if the exhibit is packed and submitted in the approved way. That’s departmental policy. We’re not yet a police lab even if you do walk in and out of the place as if it’s your own kitchen. And I decide priorities in my Laboratory. You’ll get your report as soon as it’s ready. In the meantime, if you want to ask questions, come to me, not to my junior staff. And, unless you’re invited, keep out of my Laboratory.”
Without waiting for an answer, he walked over to his car. Doyle looked after him in a kind of angry bewilderment.
“Bloody hell! His Lab! What’s wrong with him? Lately, he’s been as touchy as a bitch in heat. He’ll find himself on a brain shrinker’s couch or in the bin if he doesn’t get a hold of himself.”
Howarth said coldly: “He’s right, of course. Any inquiry about the work should be made to him, not to a member of his staff. And it’s usual to ask permission before walking into a laboratory.”
The rebuke stung. Doyle frowned. His face hardened. Howarth had a disconcerting glimpse of the barely controlled aggression beneath the mask of casual good humour. Doyle said: “Old Dr. Mac used to welcome the police in his Lab. He had this odd idea, you see, that helping the police was what it was all about. But if we’re not wanted, you’d better talk to the Chief. No doubt he’ll issue his instructions.” He turned on his heel and made off towards his car without waiting for a reply.
Howarth thought: “Damn Lorrimer! Everything he touches goes wrong for me.” He felt a spasm of hatred so intense, so physical that it made him retch. If only Lorrimer’s body were sprawled at the bottom of the clunch pit. If only it were Lorrimer’s cadaver which would be cradled in porcelain on the post-mortem table next day, laid out for ritual evisceration. He knew what was wrong with him. The diagnosis was as simple as it was humiliating: that self-infecting fever of the blood which could lie deceptively dormant, then flare now into torment. Jealousy, he thought, was as physical as fear; the same dryness of the mouth, the thudding heart, the restlessness which destroyed appetite and peace. And he knew now that, this time, the sickness was incurable. It made no difference that the affair was over, that Lorrimer, too, was suffering. Reason couldn’t cure it, nor, he suspected, could distance, nor time. It could be ended only by death; Lorrimer’s or his own.
4
At half past six, in the front bedroom of 2 Acacia Close, Chevisham, Susan Bradley, wife of the Higher Scientific Officer in the Biology Department of Hoggatt’s Laboratory, was welcomed by the faint, plaintive wail of her two-month-old baby, hungry for her first feed of the day. Susan switched on the bedside lamp, a pink glow under its frilled shade, and reaching for her dressing gown, shuffled sleepily to the bathroom next door, and then to the nursery. It was a small room at the back of the house, little more than a box, but when she pressed down the switch of the low-voltage nursery light she felt again a glow of maternal, proprietorial pride. Even in her sleepy morning daze the first sight of the nursery lifted her heart: the nursing chair with its back decorated with rabbits; the matching changing table fitted with drawers for the baby’s things; the wicker cot in its stand which she had lined with a pink, blue and white flowered cotton to match the curtains; the bright fringe of nursery-rhyme characters which Clifford had pasted round the wall.
With the sound of her footsteps the cries became stronger. She picked up the warm, milky-smelling cocoon and crooned reassurance. Immediately the cries ceased and Debbie’s moist mouth, opening and shutting like a fish, sought her breast, the small wrinkled fists freed from the blanket, unfurled to clutch against her crumpled nightdress. The books said to change baby first, but she could never bear to make Debbie wait. And there was another reason. The walls of the modern house were thin, and she didn’t want the sound of crying to wake Cliff.
But suddenly he was at the door, swaying slightly, his pyjama jacket gaping open. Her heart sank. She made her voice sound bright, matter-of-fact.
“I hoped she hadn’t woken you, darling. But it’s after half past six. She slept over seven hours. Getting better.”
“I was awake already.”
“Go back to bed, Cliff. You can get in another hour’s sleep.”
“I can’t sleep.”
He looked round the little nursery with a puzzled frown, as if disconcerted not to find a chair.
Susan said: “Bring in the stool from the bathroom. And put on your dressing gown. You’ll catch cold.”
He placed the stool against the wall and crouched there in sullen misery. Susan raised her cheek from resting against the soft furriness of the baby’s head. The small, snub-nosed leech latched on to her breast, fingers splayed in an ecstasy of content. Susan told herself that she must keep calm, mustn’t let nerves and muscles knot themselves into the familiar ache of worry. Everyone said that it was bad for the milk. She said quietly: “What’s wrong, darling?” But she knew what was wrong. She knew what he would say. She felt a new and frightening sense of resentment that she couldn’t even feed Debbie in peace. And she wished he would do up his pyjamas. Sitting like that, slumped and half-naked, he looked almost dissolute. She wondered what was happening to her. She had never felt like this about Cliff before Debbie was born.
“I can’t go on. I can’t go into the Lab today.”
“Are you ill?” But she knew that he wasn’t ill, at least not yet. But he would be ill if something wasn’t done about Edwin Lorrimer. The old misery descended on her. People wrote in books about a black weight of worry, and they were right, that was just how it felt, a perpetual physical burden which dragged at the shoulders and the heart, denying joy, even destroying, she thought bitterly, their pleasure in Debbie. Perhaps in the end it would destroy even love. She didn’t speak but settled her small, warm burden more comfortably against her arm.
“I’ve got to give up the job. It’s no use, Sue. I can’t go on. He’s got me in such a state that I’m as useless as he says I am.”
“But Cliff, you know that isn’t true. You’re a good worker. There were never complaints about you at your last lab.”
“I wasn’t an HSO then. Lorrimer thinks I ought never to have been promoted. He’s right.”
“He isn’t right. Darling, you mustn’t let him sap your confidence. That’s fatal. You’re a conscientious, reliable forensic biologist. You mustn’t worry if you’re not as quick as the others. That isn’t important. Dr. Mac always said it’s accuracy that counts. What does it matter if you take your time? You get the answer right in the end.”
“Not any longer. I can’t even do a simple peroxidase test now without fumbling. If he comes within two feet of me my hands start shaking. And he’s begun checking all my results. I’ve just finished examining the stains on the mallet from the suspected Pascoe murder. But he’ll work late tonight d
oing it again. And he’ll make sure that the whole Biology Department knows why.”
Cliff couldn’t, she knew, stand up to bullying or sarcasm. Perhaps it was because of his father. The old man was paralysed now after a stroke and she supposed that she ought to feel sorry for him lying there in his hospital bed, useless as a felled tree, mouth slavering, only the angry eyes moving in impotent fury from face to watching face. But from what Cliff had let slip he had been a poor father, an unpopular and unsuccessful schoolmaster yet with unreasonable ambitions for his only son. Cliff had been terrified of him. What Cliff needed was encouragement and affection. Who cared if he never rose any higher than HSO? He was kind and loving. He looked after her and Debbie. He was her husband and she loved him. But he mustn’t resign. What other job could he get? What else was he suited for? Unemployment was as bad in East Anglia as it was elsewhere. There was the mortgage to pay and the electricity bill for the central heating—they couldn’t economize there because of Debbie needing warmth—and the hire-purchase on the bedroom suite to find. Even the nursery furniture wasn’t paid for yet. She had wanted everything nice and new for Debbie, but it had taken all their remaining savings.
She said: “Couldn’t you apply to Establishment Department for a transfer?”
The despair in his voice tore at her heart. “No one will want me if Lorrimer says I’m no good. He’s probably the best forensic biologist in the Service. If he thinks I’m useless, then I’m useless.”
It was this, too, which she was beginning to find irritating, the obsequious respect of the victim for his oppressor. Sometimes, appalled by her disloyalty, she could begin to understand Dr. Lorrimer’s contempt.
She said: “Why not have a word with the director?”
“I might have done if Dr. Mac was still there. But Howarth wouldn’t care. He’s new. He doesn’t want any trouble with the senior staff, particularly now when we’re getting ready to move into the new Lab.”
And then she thought of Mr. Middlemass. He was the Principal Scientific Officer Document Examiner, and she had worked for him as a young SO before her marriage. It was at Hoggatt’s Laboratory that she had met Cliff. Perhaps he could do something, could speak to Howarth for them, could use his influence with Estabs. She wasn’t sure how she expected him to help, but the need to confide in someone was overwhelming. They couldn’t go on like this. Cliff would have a breakdown. And how would she manage with the baby and Cliff ill and the future uncertain? But surely Mr. Middlemass could do something. She believed in him because she needed to believe. She looked across at Cliff.
“Don’t worry, darling, it’s going to be all right. We’re going to think of something. You go in today and we’ll talk about it in the evening.”
“How can we? Your mother’s coming to supper.”
“After supper then. She’ll be catching the quarter-to-eight bus. We’ll talk then.”
“I can’t go on like this, Sue.”
“You won’t have to. I’ll think of something. It’s going to be all right. I promise you, darling. It’s going to be all right.”
5
“Mum, did you know that every human being is unique?”
“Of course I did. It stands to reason, doesn’t it? There’s only one of every person. You’re you. I’m me. Pass your dad the marmalade and keep your sleeves out of that butter.”
Brenda Pridmore, recently appointed Clerical Officer/Receptionist at Hoggatt’s Laboratory, pushed the marmalade across the breakfast table and began methodically slicing thin strips from the white of her fried egg, postponing, as she had from early childhood, that cataclysmic moment when she would plunge the fork into the glistening yellow dome. But indulgence in this small personal ritual was almost automatic. Her mind was preoccupied with the excitements and discoveries of her wonderful first job.
“I mean biologically unique. Inspector Blakelock, he’s the Assistant Police Liaison Officer, told me that every human being has a unique fingerprint and no two types of blood are exactly the same. If the scientists had enough systems they could distinguish them all, the blood types I mean. He thinks that day may come in time. The forensic serologist will be able to say with certainty where the blood came from, even with a dried stain. It’s dried blood that’s difficult. If that blood is fresh we can do far more with it.”
“Funny job you’ve got yourself.” Mrs. Pridmore refilled the teapot from the kettle on the Aga hob and eased herself back into her chair. The farmhouse kitchen, its flowered cretonne curtains still undrawn, was warm and cosily domestic, smelling of toast, fried bacon and hot, strong tea.
“I don’t know that I like the idea of you checking in bits of body and bloodstained clothes. I hope you wash your hands properly before you come home.”
“Oh Mum, it’s not like that! The exhibits all arrive in plastic bags with identifying tags. We have to be ever so particular that all of them are labelled and properly entered in the book. It’s a question of continuity of evidence, what Inspector Blakelock calls the integrity of the sample. And we don’t get bits of body.”
Remembering suddenly the sealed bottles of stomach contents, the carefully dissected pieces of liver and intestines, looking, when you came to think of it, no more frightening than exhibits in the science laboratory at school, she said quickly: “Well, not in the way you mean. Dr. Kerrison does all the cutting up. He’s a forensic pathologist attached to the Laboratory. Of course, some of the organs come to us for analysis.”
Inspector Blakelock, she remembered, had told her that the Laboratory refrigerator had once held a whole head. But that wasn’t the kind of thing to tell Mum. She rather wished that the Inspector hadn’t told her. The refrigerator, squat and gleaming like a surgical sarcophagus, had held a sinister fascination for her ever since. But Mrs. Pridmore had seized gratefully on a familiar name.
“I know who Dr. Kerrison is, I should hope. Lives at the Old Rectory at Chevisham alongside the church, doesn’t he? His wife ran off with one of the doctors at the hospital, left him and the two kids, that odd-looking daughter and the small boy, poor little fellow. You remember all the talk there was at the time, Arthur?”
Her husband didn’t reply, nor did she expect him to. It was an understood convention that Arthur Pridmore left breakfast conversation to his women.
Brenda went happily on: “Forensic science isn’t just helping the police to discover who’s guilty. We help clear the innocent too. People sometimes forget that. We had a case last month—of course, I can’t mention names—when a sixteen-year-old choir girl accused her vicar of rape. Well, he was innocent.”
“So I should hope! Rape indeed!”
“But it looked very black against him. Only he was lucky. He was a secreter.”
“A what, for goodness’ sake?”
“He secreted his blood group in all his body fluids. Not everyone does. So the biologist was able to examine his saliva and compare his blood group with the stains on the victim’s …”
“Not at breakfast, Brenda, if you don’t mind.”
Brenda, her eyes suddenly alighting on a round milk stain on the tablecloth, herself thought that breakfast wasn’t perhaps the most suitable time for a display of her recently acquired information about the investigation of rape. She went on to a safer subject.
“Dr. Lorrimer—he’s the Principal Scientific Officer in charge of the Biology Department—says that I ought to work for an ‘A’ level subject and try for a job as an Assistant Scientific Officer. He thinks that I could do better than just a clerical job. And once I got my ASO I’d be on a scientific grade and could work myself up. Some of the most famous forensic scientists have started that way, he said. He’s offered to give me a reading list, and he says he doesn’t see why I shouldn’t use some of the Laboratory equipment for my practical work.”
“I didn’t know that you worked in the Biology Department.”
“I don’t. I’m mainly on reception with Inspector Blakelock, and sometimes I help out in the general office. Bu
t we got talking when I had to spend an afternoon in his Laboratory checking reports for courts with his staff, and he was ever so nice. A lot of people don’t like him. They say he’s too strict; but I think he’s just shy. He might have been Director if the Home Office hadn’t passed him over and appointed Dr. Howarth.”
“He seems to be taking quite an interest in you, this Mr. Lorrimer.”
“Dr. Lorrimer, Mum.”
“Dr. Lorrimer, then. Though why he wants to call himself a doctor beats me. You don’t have any patients at the Lab.”
“He’s a Ph.D., Mum. Doctor of Philosophy.”
“Oh, is he? I thought he was supposed to be a scientist. Anyway, you’d better watch your step.”
“Oh, Mum, don’t be daft. He’s old. He must be forty or more. Mum, did you know that our Lab is the oldest forensic science lab in the country? There are regional labs covering the whole country but ours was the first. Colonel Hoggatt started it in Chevisham Manor when he was Chief Constable in 1912, then left the manor house to his force when he died. Forensic science was in its infancy then, Inspector Blakelock says, and Colonel Hoggatt was one of the first Chief Constables to see its possibilities. We’ve got his portrait in the hall. We’re the only lab with its founder’s name. That’s why the Home Office has agreed that the new Laboratory will still be called Hoggatt’s. Other police forces send their exhibits to their regional laboratory. North-East or the Metropolitan and so on. But in East Anglia they say ‘Better send it to Hoggatt’s.’ ”
“You’d better send yourself to Hoggatt’s if you want to get there by eight-thirty. And I don’t want you taking any short cuts through the new Lab. It isn’t safe, only half built, especially these dark mornings. Like as not you’d fall into the foundations or get a brick down on your head. They’re not safe, building sites aren’t. Look what happened to your uncle Will.”
