The Chemistry of Death

by Simon Beckett

I dreaded them. Not in the sense that you would fear a nightmare, because there was nothing fearful about them in themselves. No, it was exactly the opposite.

  I dreaded them because I had to wake up.

  Then the shock of grief, of loss, would be just as fresh as when it first happened. Often I would wake to find myself somewhere else, my somnambulent body having operated without any awareness on my part. Standing, like now, by the open window, or at the top of the steep and unforgiving stairs, with no memory of getting there or what subconscious urge might have steered me.

  I shivered, despite the cloying warmth of the night air. From outside came the lonely barking of a fox. After a while I lay down and stared at the ceiling until the shadows faded and the dark ebbed away.

  CHAPTER 4

  THE MIST WAS STILL rolling off the marshes when the young woman closed the door behind her and set off on her morning run. Lyn Metcalf ran with an easy athleticism. The pull in her calf muscle was healing nicely, but she still took it easy at first, falling into relaxed, loping strides as she ran along the narrow lane from her house. Partway down she cut off onto an overgrown track that led across marshland to the lake.

  Long grass stalks whipped at her legs as she ran, still wet and cold with dew. She took a deep breath, savouring the feeling. Monday morning or not, she couldn’t think of a better start to a new week. This was her favourite time of day, before she had to worry about balancing the accounts of farmers and small businesses who resented her advice, before the day developed a less optimistic shape, before other people had chance to sully it. All was fresh and sharp, reduced to the rhythmic thump of her feet on the track and the even rasp of her breathing.

  At thirty-one Lyn was proud of her condition. Proud of the discipline that kept her in shape, and meant she still looked good in the tight shorts and cropped top. Not that she would be smug enough to admit that to anybody. Besides, she enjoyed it, and that made it easier. Enjoyed pushing herself, seeing how far she could go, and then trying for that extra bit further. If there was a better start to the day than pulling on a pair of running shoes and putting in the miles while the world came alive around her she’d yet to find it.

  Well, OK, except sex, of course. And the edge had gone from that lately. Not that it wasn’t still good—just the sight of Marcus showering off the day’s plaster dust, the water flattening the dark hair on his body to an otter’s pelt, could still produce a coiling in her belly. But when there was a point behind it besides pleasure it tended to blunt the enjoyment for both of them. Especially when it had come to nothing.

  So far.

  She leapt over a deep rut in the track without breaking stride, careful not to lose her rhythm. Lose my rhythm, she thought, sourly. I wish. When it came to rhythms her body was as regular as clockwork. Every month without fail, almost to the day, the hated flow of blood would begin, signalling the end of another cycle and a fresh disappointment. The doctors had said there was nothing wrong with either of them. For some people it just took longer than others; no-one knew why. Keep trying, they said. And they had, eagerly at first, laughing at being given medical approval for doing something they both enjoyed anyway. Almost like getting it on prescription, Marcus had joked. But the jokes had gradually petered out, replaced by something that wasn’t quite desperation, not yet. But the embryonic beginnings of that, if nothing else, were forming. And it was starting to colour everything else, to taint every aspect of their relationship.

  Not that either of them admitted it. It was there, though. She knew Marcus found it hard enough that she earned more from her small accountancy practice than he did as a builder. The recriminations hadn’t started yet, but she was frightened they might. And she knew she was as capable of hitting out as Marcus. Outwardly, they’d reassured each other that there was nothing to worry about, that there was no rush. But they’d been trying for years, and in another four she’d be thirty-five, the age she’d always claimed would be her cut-off point. She did a quick sum. That’s forty-eight more menstruations. It seemed frighteningly close. Forty-eight more potential disappointments. Except that this month was different. This month the disappointment was three days late.

  She quickly closed down the burst of hope she felt. It was too soon for that. She’d not even told Marcus that her period hadn’t started. No point raising his hopes for nothing. She would give it a few more days, then take a test. That thought alone was enough to send a flutter of nerves through her stomach. Run, don’t think, she told herself, firmly.

  The sun was coming up now, burnishing the sky directly ahead. The track ran along an embankment by the lake, cutting through reedbeds as it headed for a dark expanse of woods. Mist curled slowly on the water, as if it were about to combust. The sound of a fish jumping broke the silence with an invisible slap. She loved this. Loved summer, loved the landscape. Even though she’d been born here, she’d still been away to university, travelled abroad. But she’d always come back. God’s own country, her dad always said. She didn’t believe in God, not really, but she knew what he meant.

  She was coming to her favourite part of the run now. A path forked off into the woods, and Lyn followed it. She slowed her pace as the trees closed in overhead, closeting her in shadows. It was all too easy to trip over a root in the dim light. It had been a stumble over one of them that had made her pull the muscle in her leg, and she’d gone almost two months before she could run again.

  But the low sun was already starting to pierce the gloom, turning the canopy of leaves into a glowing latticework. The woodland here was ancient, a wilderness of creeper-strangled trunks and swampy, treacherous ground. Cutting through it was a warren of meandering paths that could lure the unwary into its depths. When they’d first moved in to the house Lyn had made the mistake of exploring it during one of her morning runs. It had been hours before she’d emerged onto a familiar stretch by pure luck. Marcus had been frantic—and furious—when she’d finally made it back home. Since then she’d kept to the same path going both in and out.

  The halfway point for her six-mile route was a small clearing, in the centre of which was an old standing stone. It might have been part of a stone circle once, or just a gatepost. No-one knew anymore. Overgrown with lichen and grass, its history and secrets were long forgotten. But it was a convenient marker, and Lyn had fallen into the habit of patting its rough surface before setting off back. The clearing wasn’t far now, a few minutes at most. Breathing deeply but steadily, Lyn thought about breakfast to goad herself to run faster.

  She wasn’t sure when the unease started. It was more a growing awareness, a subliminal itch that finally tipped into conscious thought. Suddenly, the woods seemed unnaturally quiet. Oppressive. The thud of her feet on the path sounded too loud in the stillness. She tried to ignore the feeling, but it persisted. Grew stronger. She fought the temptation to look around. What the hell was the matter with her? It wasn’t as if she hadn’t done this run most mornings for the past two years. She’d never been bothered before.

  But she was now. The back of her neck prickled, as though something was watching her. Don’t be stupid, she told herself. But the urge to look back was growing. She kept her eyes on the path. The only other living thing she’d ever seen here was a deer. This didn’t feel like a deer, though. That’s because it isn’t. It’s nothing. Just your imagination. Your period’s three days late and you’re letting it get to you.

  The thought distracted her, but only briefly. She risked a quick glance, had time to see only dark branches and the path twisting out of sight before her foot stubbed against something. She stumbled, windmilling her arms for balance, heart thumping as she just managed to keep upright. Idiot! The clearing was just ahead of her now, an oasis of dappled sunbeams in the choked woodland. She put on an extra spurt of speed, slapped her hand onto the rough surface of the standing stone and quickly turned around.

  Nothing. Just the trees, shadowed and brooding.

  What did you expect? Pixies? But she didn’t leave the
clearing. There was no birdsong, no whisper of insects. The wood seemed to hold its breath in pensive silence. Lyn was suddenly afraid to break it, loath to leave the clearing’s sanctuary and feel the trees close in around her again. So what are you going to do? Stay here all day?

  Without giving herself time to think, she pushed off from the stone again. Five minutes and she’d be back out in the open. Open fields, open water, open sky. She pictured it in her mind. The unease was still there, but less urgent. And the shadowy woods were growing lighter, the sun throwing its light ahead of her now. She began to relax, and that was when she saw something on the ground ahead of her.

  She stopped a few feet away. Splayed out on the centre of the path like an offering was a dead rabbit. No, not a rabbit. A hare, its soft fur matted with blood.

  It hadn’t been there before.

  Lyn quickly looked around. But the trees offered no clue as to where it had come from. She stepped around it, then broke into a run again. A fox, she told herself, as she settled back into her rhythm. She must have disturbed it. But a fox wouldn’t have left its prey behind, disturbed or not. And the hare didn’t look as if it had been just dropped. The way it was laid out looked…

  Looked deliberate.

  That was stupid, though. She pushed the thought from her mind as she pounded down the path. And then she was out of the wood and back in the open, with the lake spread out before her. The anxiety she’d felt a few minutes before sloughed away, fading with every step. In the sunlight it seemed absurd. Embarrassing, even.

  Later, her husband Marcus would remember that the local news was on the radio as she came in. As he put bread in the toaster and chopped a banana he told Lyn that a body had been found only a few miles away. It must have sparked a connection, even then, because she told him about finding the dead hare. But she’d laughed about it, making a joke of how it had spooked her. As the bread popped out of the toaster the incident already seemed insignificant to both of them.

  When she came back from the shower, it wasn’t mentioned again.

  CHAPTER 5

  I WAS HALFWAY THROUGH the morning surgery when Mackenzie arrived. Janice brought the news along with the next patient’s notes. Her eyes were wide with intrigue.

  ‘There’s a policeman here to see you. A Chief Inspector Mackenzie.’

  For some reason I wasn’t surprised. I looked down at the patient’s notes. Ann Benchley, an eighty-year-old woman with chronic arthritis. A regular.

  ‘How many more are there to see?’ I asked, stalling.

  ‘Another three after this.’

  ‘Tell him I won’t be long. And tell Mrs Benchley to come through.’

  She looked surprised, but said nothing. By now I doubted there was anyone in the village who didn’t know that a body had been found the day before. But so far no-one seemed to have made the connection with Sally Palmer. I wondered how long it would stay that way.

  I pretended to study the notes until Janice had gone. I knew Mackenzie wouldn’t have come unless it was important, and I doubted any of that morning’s patients were urgent cases. I wasn’t sure why I was keeping him waiting, other than a deep reluctance to hear whatever he had to say.

  I tried not to think what it might be as I saw my next patient. I looked sympathetic as Mrs Benchley displayed her gnarled hands, made the soothing and ultimately useless noises expected of me as I wrote her another prescription, and smiled vaguely as she hobbled out, satisfied. After that, though, I couldn’t put it off any longer.

  ‘Send him in,’ I told Janice.

  ‘He doesn’t look very happy,’ she warned me.

  No, Mackenzie didn’t look very happy. There was an angry flush to his face, and his jaw jutted truculently.

  ‘Good of you to see me, Dr Hunter,’ he said, his sarcasm barely concealed. He carried a leather folder. He held it on his lap as he sat down opposite me, uninvited.

  ‘What can I do for you, Inspector?’

  ‘Just a couple of points I’d like to clarify.’

  ‘Have you identified the body?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  He took out the packet of mints and popped one in his mouth. I waited. I’d known enough policemen not to be discomforted by the games they played.

  ‘I didn’t think places like this were around any more. You know, small, family doctor, home visits, all that sort of thing,’ he said, looking around. His eyes settled on the bookshelves. ‘Lot of stuff on psychology, I see. That an interest of yours?’

  ‘They’re not mine, they’re my partner’s.’

  ‘Ah. So how many patients do the two of you have?’

  I wondered where this was going. ‘Five, six hundred altogether, perhaps.’

  ‘As many as that?’

  ‘It’s a small village but a big area.’

  He nodded, as if this were just a normal conversation. ‘Bit different to being a GP in a city.’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘Miss London, do you?’

  I knew then what was coming. Again, no real surprise. Just a sense of a weight settling onto my shoulders. ‘Perhaps you’d better tell me what you want.’

  ‘I did some research after we spoke yesterday. My being a policeman and all.’ He gave me a cool stare. ‘You’ve an impressive CV, Dr Hunter. Not the sort of thing you’d imagine for a village GP.’

  Unzipping the folder, he made a show of leafing through the papers in it. ‘Took your medical certificate then switched to a Ph.D. in Anthropological Science. Quite a high-flier, according to this. Followed that with a stint in the States at the University of Tennessee before coming back to the UK as a specialist in forensic anthropology.’

  He cocked his head. ‘You know, I wasn’t even sure what forensic anthropology was, and I’ve been a policeman for nearly twenty years. I could manage the “forensic” bit, of course. But anthropology? I always thought that was studying old bones. Bit like archaeology. Shows how things can slip by you.’

  ‘I don’t like to rush you, but I’ve got patients waiting.’

  ‘Oh, I won’t take any longer than I have to. But while I was on the Internet I also found some papers you’d written. Interesting titles.’ He picked up a sheet of paper. ‘ “The Role of Entomology in Time-Since-Death Analysis”. “The Chemistry of Human Decomposition”.’

  He lowered the paper. ‘Pretty specialist stuff. So I phoned a friend of mine in London. He’s an inspector with the Met. Turned out he’d heard of you. Surprise, surprise, it looks like you’ve worked as a consultant for various police forces on quite a few murder investigations. England, Scotland, even Northern Ireland. My contact said you were one of the few registered forensic anthropologists in the country. Worked on mass graves in Iraq, Bosnia, the Congo. You name it. According to him you were pretty much the expert when it came to human remains. Not just identifying them, but how long they’d been dead, what they’d died of. He said you picked up where pathologists left off.’

  ‘Is there a point to this?’

  ‘The point is I can’t help but wonder why you didn’t mention any of this yesterday. When you knew we’d found a body, when you found evidence it could be a local woman, when you knew we would want to identify who it was as soon as bloody possible.’ He kept his voice level, though his face had grown redder than ever. ‘My friend at the Met thought it was highly amusing. Here am I, the senior investigating officer of a murder inquiry, with one of the country’s leading forensic experts in front of me pretending to be a GP.’

  I didn’t let the fact he’d finally called it a murder distract me. ‘I am a GP.’

  ‘But that’s not all you are, is it? So why the big secret?’

  ‘Because what I used to do doesn’t matter. I’m a doctor now.’

  Mackenzie was studying me as if trying to decide if I was joking or not. ‘I made some other phone calls after that one. I know that you’ve only been practising as a GP for three years. Packed in forensic anthropology and came out here after your wife and daughter died
in a car crash. Drunk driver in the other car survived unhurt.’

  I sat very still. Mackenzie had the grace to look uncomfortable. ‘I don’t want to open old wounds. Perhaps if you’d been straight with me yesterday I wouldn’t have had to. But the bottom line is we need your help.’

  I knew he wanted me to ask how, but I didn’t. He went on anyway.

  ‘The condition of the body’s making it difficult to identify. We know it’s female, but that’s all. And until we’ve got an ID we’re pretty much hamstrung. We can’t start a proper murder investigation unless we know for certain who the victim is.’

  I found myself speaking. ‘You said “for certain”. You’re already pretty sure, aren’t you?’

  ‘We still haven’t been able to trace Sally Palmer.’

  It was only what I’d been expecting, but it still shook me to hear it confirmed.

  ‘Several people remember seeing her at the pub barbecue, but so far we haven’t found anyone who can recall seeing her since,’ Mackenzie continued. ‘That’s nearly a fortnight ago. We’ve taken DNA samples from the body and the house, but it’ll be a week before we get any results.’

  ‘What about fingerprints?’

  ‘Not a chance. We can’t say yet if that’s down to decomposition or if they’ve been deliberately removed.’

  ‘Dental records, then.’

  He shook his head. ‘There aren’t enough teeth left to get a match.’

  ‘Someone broke them?’

  ‘You could say that. Could have been done deliberately to prevent us identifying the body, or just a by-product of the injuries. We don’t know yet.’

  I rubbed my eyes. ‘So it’s definitely murder?’

  ‘Oh, she was murdered, right enough,’ he said, grimly. ‘The body’s too badly decomposed to know if she was sexually abused as well, but the assumption is that she probably was. And then somebody killed her.’

  ‘How?’

  Without answering, he took a large envelope from the folder and dropped it on the desk. The shiny edge of photographs peeped out. My hand was reaching for them before I realized what I was doing.