The Chemistry of Death

by Simon Beckett

  ‘The what?’

  ‘Time-since-death interval. You can analyse changes in the body chemistry to find out how long it’s been dead, basically. Composition of amino acids, volatile fatty acids, the level of protein breakdown. After that I’ll have to remove any soft tissue that’s left so I can examine the skeleton itself. See what sort of trauma it suffered, what type of weapon caused it. That sort of thing.’

  Mackenzie had a frown of distaste. ‘How do you do that?’

  ‘Well, if there’s not much soft tissue left you can either use a scalpel or forceps. Or you boil the body for a few hours in detergent.’

  Mackenzie pulled a face. ‘Now I know why you wanted to be a GP.’ I could see the moment when he remembered my other reasons. ‘Sorry,’ he added.

  ‘Forget it.’

  We drove in silence for a while. I noticed Mackenzie scratching his neck.

  ‘Have you had it looked at yet?’ I asked.

  ‘Had what looked at?’

  ‘The mole. You were scratching it.’

  He hurriedly lowered his hand. ‘Just an itch.’ He turned into a car park. ‘Here we are.’

  I followed him into the hospital. We took a lift from the ground floor to the basement. The mortuary was at the end of a long corridor. The smell of it hit me as soon as I went inside, a sweetly pungent chemical blanket that seemed to coat the lungs after a single breath. Inside was an essay in white, stainless steel and glass. A young Asian woman in a white lab coat stood up from behind a desk as we walked in.

  ‘Afternoon, Marina,’ Mackenzie said, easily. ‘Dr Hunter, Marina Patel. She’s going to be around to help you.’

  She smiled as we shook hands. I was still trying to get my bearings, adjust to once again being back in a setting that was both so familiar and strange.

  Mackenzie looked at his watch. ‘Right, I’d better get to the station. Just ring me when you’ve finished and I’ll get you a lift back.’

  After he’d gone the young woman looked at me expectantly, waiting for instructions. ‘So…are you the pathologist?’ I asked, putting off the moment for a little longer.

  She grinned. ‘Not yet. Just a graduate student. But I have hopes.’

  I nodded. Neither of us moved.

  ‘Do you want to see the body?’ she asked, eventually.

  No. No, I didn’t. ‘Fine.’

  She gave me a lab coat and led me through a pair of heavy swing doors. Behind them was a smaller room, like an operating theatre. It was cold inside. The body was laid out on a stainless-steel table, incongruous on the dulled metal surface. Marina switched on the bright lights fixed overhead, showing it in its pathetic entirety.

  I looked down at what had been Sally Palmer. But there was nothing of her left here now. The relief I felt was fleeting, quickly replaced by a clinical detachment.

  ‘OK. Let’s get started,’ I said.

  The woman had seen better days. Her face was pockmarked and worn, her features beginning to lose any distinction they might once have held. With her bowed head, she seemed to bear the weight of the world on her shoulders. Yet there was something noble about her resignation, as though, unwelcome as it was, her lot was one she nevertheless accepted.

  The statue of the unknown saint drew my attention during the church service. I couldn’t say what there was about it I liked. Mounted on its stone pillar, it was roughly hewn, and even to my unschooled eye the sculptor had a poor sense of proportion. Yet whether it was the softening effect of age or something less definable, there was something about it that appealed. It had endured for centuries, seen countless days of joy and tragedy played out beneath it. It would still be there, watchful and silent, long after everyone else had faded from memory. It was a reminder that, good or bad, everything passes.

  Right now that was a comforting thought. The old church was cool and musty, even on a warm evening. Light fell through the stained-glass window in blues and mauves, the ancient glass warped and uneven in its leaded frames. The central aisle was flagged with uneven stone slabs now worn smooth, interspersed with ancient gravestones. The one nearest me was engraved with a skull, beneath which some medieval stonemason had inscribed a sombre message.

  As you are now, so I once was

  As I am now, so will you be

  I moved my weight from side to side on the hard wooden pew as Scarsdale’s insidious baritone echoed off the stone walls. What had supposedly set out to be a prayer service had predictably become an excuse for the reverend to inflict his own brand of piety on a captive audience.

  ‘Even as we pray for the soul of Sally Palmer, and for the deliverance of Lyn Metcalf, there is undoubtedly a question all of us want answered. Why? Why should this have happened? Is it judgement that these two young women have been taken from us so brutally? But judgement for what? And on who?’

  Gripping the aged wooden pulpit in both his hands, Scarsdale glowered down at his congregation.

  ‘Judgement can fall upon any of us, at any time. It is not for us to question it. It is not for us to cry that it isn’t fair. God is merciful, but we have no right to expect His mercy. And God’s mercy is delivered in ways we may not understand. It does not fall to us to decry it, simply because of our ignorance.’

  Flashbulbs popped silently as Scarsdale paused for breath. He’d allowed the press inside the church, which added to the unreality of the situation. Its normally meagre congregation had swollen to overflowing. By the time I’d arrived the pews were full, and I’d been forced to ease my way through to a small space at the back.

  I’d forgotten about the service until I’d seen the glut of people in the churchyard. Mackenzie had arranged for me to be driven back to Manham by a taciturn plain-clothed police sergeant, who clearly resented being forced into taxi duties. The inspector’s phone had been switched off when I’d called to tell him I’d finished for the day. But I’d left a voicemail message and he’d rung back almost immediately.

  ‘How did it go?’

  ‘I’ve sent off samples for gas chromatograph tests. When they’re back I’ll be able to give you a more accurate time-since-death,’ I’d told him. ‘Tomorrow I’ll be able to start examining the skeleton. That might give us a better idea of what sort of weapon was used.’

  ‘You’ve not got anything yet, then?’ He’d sounded disappointed.

  ‘Only that Marina told me the pathologist thinks the cause of death was probably the head injuries rather than the throat wound.’

  ‘And you don’t agree?’

  ‘I’m not saying they wouldn’t have been fatal. But she was still alive when her throat was cut.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘The body’s prematurely desiccated. Even in the heat we’ve been having it wouldn’t have dried out this quickly unless there was major blood loss. That doesn’t happen after death, even with a cut throat.’

  ‘The soil samples from where the body was found showed a low iron content,’ Mackenzie had pointed out.

  That meant not much blood had soaked into the ground where the body had been found. With the amount that would have gushed out of a severed jugular, the soil’s iron content should have been sky high.

  ‘Then she was killed somewhere else.’

  ‘What about the head injuries?’

  ‘Either they didn’t kill her or they were caused post-mortem.’

  He was silent for a while, but I could guess what he was thinking. Whatever Sally Palmer had gone through, the same was now facing Lyn Metcalf. And if she wasn’t dead already, it was only a matter of time.

  Barring miracles.

  Scarsdale was beginning to wind down. ‘Some of you may still be asking what those two poor women did to deserve this. What our community has done to deserve this.’ He spread his hands. ‘Perhaps nothing. Perhaps the modern consensus is right; perhaps there is no reason, no prevailing wisdom behind our universe.’

  He paused, dramatically. I wondered if he were deliberately playing to the cameras.

  ‘Or p
erhaps we have just allowed ourselves to be too dazzled by our own arrogance to see it,’ he went on. ‘Many of you here have not set foot in this church for years. Your lives are too busy to share with God. I cannot claim to have known either Sally Palmer or Lyn Metcalf. Their lives and this church did not often intersect. That they are tragic victims, however, I have no doubt. But victims of what?’

  Now he leaned forward, thrusting his head at us.

  ‘We should all of us, every one, look into our hearts. Christ said, “As ye sow, so shall ye reap.” And today we are doing just that. Reaping the fruit not just of the spiritual blight of our society, but of turning a blind eye to it. Evil doesn’t cease to exist just because we choose to ignore it. So where should we look to lay the blame?’

  He levelled a bony finger and slowly swept it around the packed church.

  ‘At ourselves. We are the ones who have permitted this Serpent to move freely among us. No-one else. And now we need to pray to God for the strength to cast it from our midst!’

  There was an uneasy silence as people tried to digest his words. Scarsdale didn’t give them a chance. He lifted his chin and closed his eyes, as the camera flashes cast shifting shadows on his face.

  ‘Let us pray.’

  Outside the church there was none of the milling around that normally follows a service. A police trailer had been set up by the village square, and its white, bulky presence seemed both incongruous and intimidating. Despite the attempts of the press and TV cameras, few people felt inclined to provide interviews. This was all still too raw, too private for that. It was one thing watching coverage of other communities that had been struck by tragedy. Being part of one yourself was another matter.

  So the journalists’ fevered questions were met with a stony response that was no less impenetrable for being polite. With only one or two exceptions, Manham turned its collective back to the eyes of the outside world. Surprisingly, Scarsdale was one of those who allowed himself to be interviewed. He wasn’t the sort you would normally expect to have much truck with publicity, but he’d obviously felt it was permissible to sup with the devil, just this once. Given the tone of his sermon, he seemed to regard what had happened as a vindication of his calling. In his jaundiced eyes he had been proved right, and he was going to grasp the moment in both gnarled fists.

  Henry and I watched him preaching to soundbite-starved journalists in the churchyard, while behind him excited children scrambled over the Martyr’s Stone, trampling the wilted flowers that still decorated it as they hoped to get in shot. His voice, if not his actual words, carried to the green where we waited under the horse chestnut. I’d found Henry there when I’d emerged after the service. He’d given me a skewed smile when I went over.

  ‘Couldn’t you get in?’ I asked.

  ‘I didn’t try. I wanted to show my respects, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to pander to Scarsdale’s ego. Or listen to his bile. What was it, God’s judgement on our sins? We’ve brought this on ourselves?’

  ‘Something like that,’ I admitted.

  Henry snorted. ‘Just what Manham needs. An invitation to paranoia.’

  Standing behind Scarsdale as he continued his impromptu press conference, I noticed that the ranks of his hard-line parishioners had been swelled by new converts. The likes of Lee and Marjory Goodchild and Judith Sutton and her son Rupert had been joined by many less regular church-goers. They looked on like a mute, approving chorus as the reverend raised his voice to drive home his point to the cameras.

  Henry shook his head in disgust. ‘Look at him. In his element. Man of God? Hah! This is just his chance to say “I told you so”.’

  ‘Still, he has a point.’

  He gave me a sceptical look. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve been converted.’

  ‘Not by Scarsdale. But whoever’s behind this must be local. Someone who knows the countryside around here. Knows us.’

  ‘In that case God help us, because if Scarsdale gets his way things are going to get a lot worse before they get any better.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You ever seen The Crucible? Play by Arthur Miller about the Salem witch hunts?’

  ‘Only on TV.’

  ‘Well, that’s going to be nothing to what goes on in Manham if this carries on much longer.’ I thought he was joking, but the look he gave me was entirely serious. ‘Keep your head down, David. Even without Scarsdale stirring things up, the mud-slinging and finger-pointing is going to start soon. Make sure you don’t walk into any of it.’

  ‘You’re not serious?’

  ‘No? I’ve lived here a lot longer than you have. I know what our good friends and neighbours here are like. The knives are going to be sharpened already.’

  ‘Come on, don’t you think that’s stretching it a bit?’

  ‘Is it?’

  He was watching Scarsdale, who was turning back towards the church having finished whatever he had to say. As the more persistent of the journalists tried to follow, Rupert Sutton stepped to block them with his arms outstretched, a vast barrier of flesh none of them felt inclined to pass.

  Henry gave me a meaningful look. ‘Something like this brings out the worst in everyone. Manham’s a small place. And small places breed small minds. Perhaps I’m being overly pessimistic. But if I were you I’d watch my back all the same.’

  He held my gaze for a moment to make sure I’d got the message, then glanced over my shoulder. ‘Hello. Friend of yours?’

  I turned to find a young woman smiling at me. Dark-haired and plump, I’d seen her around occasionally but didn’t know her name. It was only when she moved to one side slightly that I saw she was with Jenny. By contrast, her expression was far from happy.

  Ignoring the look Jenny shot her, the other young woman stepped forward. ‘Hi. I’m Tina.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you,’ I said, wondering what was going on. Jenny gave me a brief smile. She looked flustered.

  ‘Hello, Tina,’ Henry said. ‘How’s your mum?’

  ‘Better, thanks. The swelling’s nearly gone now.’ She turned to me. There was an unmistakable glint in her eye. ‘Thanks for walking Jenny home last night. I share the house with her. Nice to see there’s some courtesy left.’

  ‘Uh, it wasn’t a problem.’

  ‘I was just saying you’ll have to come round some time. For a drink or a meal, or something.’

  I glanced at Jenny. Her face was crimson. I felt my own beginning to match it.

  ‘Well…’

  ‘How about Friday night?’

  ‘Tina, I’m sure he’s got—’ Jenny began, but her friend didn’t take the hint.

  ‘You’re not busy then, are you? We could always make it another night.’

  ‘Uh, no, but—’

  ‘Great! See you at eight o’clock.’

  Still grinning, she took Jenny’s arm and marched her away. I stared after them.

  ‘What was all that about?’ Henry asked.

  ‘No idea.’

  He looked amused.

  ‘I haven’t!’ I insisted.

  ‘Well, you can tell me all about it over Sunday lunch anyway.’ The smile left his face as he looked at me, serious again. ‘Just remember what I said. Be careful who you trust. And watch your back.’

  With that he began to wheel himself away.

  CHAPTER 10

  THE MUSIC FLOATED THROUGH the shadowed room, its off-key notes dancing through the objects hanging from the low ceiling. Moving almost in counterpoint to it, the bead of dark liquid traced a crooked line, gaining momentum as gravity finally claimed it. As it fell it formed a perfect sphere, only for its short-lived symmetry to end as it burst against the ground.

  Lyn stared dumbly at the blood as it ran down her arm, dripping off her fingers to spatter onto the floor. It had formed a small but spreading puddle, already beginning to thicken and clot at the edges. The pain from the cut had merged with that from all the others, the hurt from one becoming indistinguishable from the rest.
The blood from them smeared her skin in an abstract pattern of cruelty.

  She wobbled unsteadily on her feet as the discordant music slowed to a stop. Thankful it had ended, she leaned against the rough stone of the wall for support, becoming aware once again of the bite of the rope tied around her ankle. Her fingertips were torn from the futile hours spent trying to untie it as she lay in darkness. But the knot remained as unyielding now as ever.

  She had passed beyond the initial feelings of disbelief and betrayal to a state almost of resignation. There was no pity for her in this dark room, she knew that much. No chance of mercy. Still, she had to try. Shielding her eyes from the harshness of the light focused on her, she tried to see into the shadows where her captor sat and watched.

  ‘Please…’ Her voice was a parched croak she barely recognized. ‘Please, why are you doing this?’

  Her question was met by silence, broken only by the sound of his breathing. The smell of burning tobacco hung in the air. There was rustling, an indistinct sound of movement.

  Then the music began to play again.

  CHAPTER 11

  THURSDAY WAS THE DAY when the chill began to set into Manham. Not a physical chill—the weather remained as hot and arid as ever. But regardless of whether it was an inevitable reaction to recent events or a result of Scarsdale’s sermon, the psychological climate of the village seemed to undergo a marked change overnight. Now that it was no longer possible to lay blame for the atrocities on an outsider, the village had little choice but to turn its scrutiny on itself. Suspicion stole in like an airborne virus, not apparent at first, but already carried unknown by the first victims.

  Like any contagion, there were those who were more vulnerable than others.

  I was unaware of this as I came back from the lab in the early evening. Henry had agreed to cover for me again, waving away my suggestion of bringing in a locum. ‘Take as long as you want. Do me good to get my finger out for once,’ he’d said.

  I drove with the windows full down. Once I was away from the busiest roads, the air was scented with pollen, a tickling sweetness that overlay the faintly sulphurous scent of drying mud from the reedbeds. It was a welcome counter to the chemical stink of detergent that still seemed to coat the back of my nose and throat. It had been a long day, most of which had been spent working on Sally Palmer’s remains. Occasionally I still felt an odd schism if I tried to reconcile my memories of the extroverted, vital woman I’d known with the collection of bones that had been boiled of any last vestiges of flesh. But that wasn’t something I wanted to dwell on.