by Tim Ellis
‘It already is a knife.’
‘It’s been manually ground to a point for stabbing, so it’s now a shank.’
‘Do you think that Mona checked the list of people who had recently been released from prison?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then why didn’t they discover who he was?’
‘I don’t know. There’s something else as well.’
‘What?’
‘What size feet did the police report say he had?’
She found the report and checked. ‘Size 9.’
‘What size are those slippers?’
‘My God – they’re size 7. It’s not his suitcase, is it?’
‘That’s certainly one possibility, but then why would he put someone else’s suitcase in a left luggage locker?’
‘Maybe he stole it. Why else would he be carrying around someone else’s slippers?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘The missing labels are the same though.’
He pulled out his phone and called Laura.
‘Hi, Tom.’
‘There was a suitcase in the left luggage locker.’
‘Really? Is it any help?’
‘Not up to now, and we’re not sure that it actually belongs to him.’
‘Oh?’
‘I need to come back and see if the clothes inside it fit him.’
‘We can do that.’
‘Say in about an hour?’
‘See you then.’
The call ended.
Rae carried on examining the contents. On the inside of the trousers she found a small pocket for coins that had been sewn up with the black cotton thread. Using the scissors, she cut through the thread and inserted two fingers into the opening. ‘There’s something in here.’
‘Breathe,’ he said.
‘Oh God,’ She took a deep breath. ‘My heart’s beating like a jackhammer.’ She pulled out the item between her fingers. ‘It’s a rolled up piece of paper.’ She unfurled the yellowing paper, which measured approximately one and a half inches in width by one inch in length. In its centre were two words in a typescript italic:
Tamám Shud
She held the oblong piece of paper out to him. ‘Any ideas?’
He took it. The right hand edge was straight, but the other three edges were rough, as if they’d been torn. ‘It looks as though it’s been removed from the page of a book.’
‘An old book by the colour of the paper, and probably not an English book either.’
‘You look disappointed.’
‘I am. I expected to solve the mystery of John Doe this afternoon, but we still have nothing.’
‘You give up too easily.’
‘How’s that?’
‘We’ve found more clues – the dry-cleaning tags and numbers, the words on this scrap of paper, the possibility that they came from a book, the slippers that aren’t his shoe size, the shank, and the similarity of missing clothing labels . . .’
She picked up the stencil brush. ‘What about this?’
‘I have no idea about that, the screwdriver or the other items – maybe they’re related to the type of work he does.’
‘But if he’s just come out of prison . . .’
‘I don’t know. We may not know what any of them mean yet, but in time I’m sure we will.’
‘In time? I have a story to write.’
‘It’s a jigsaw puzzle, and they’re never easy. If they were, nobody would do them. We have to keep fitting the pieces together until the puzzle begins to take shape and make some kind of sense.’
‘What if it never makes sense?’
‘That’s the risk you take.’
‘Should we tell Mona about the suitcase now?’
‘They’ve washed their hands of it. It’s up to us to find out who John Doe is before he’s buried in an unmarked grave.’
‘You think he was murdered, don’t you?’
‘My gut tells me “Yes”. For a start, he had no wallet and no identification.’
‘That doesn’t necessarily mean he was murdered.’
‘On their own – no, but let’s examine the other jigsaw pieces. He travelled here from somewhere else by train, he then . . .’ Tom looked back at the station building.
‘What?’
‘How did he get from here to St Augustine?’
‘Walked?’
‘Hardly.’ He strode back to the train station.
Rae jogged after him. ‘You don’t have to walk so fast.’
‘Is there a taxicab company that regularly picks up people from outside?’ he asked the man behind the bullet-proof glass screen.
‘Sure – Yellow Cabs. There’s usually one or two parked up outside.’
‘Thanks.’ He turned to go.
‘And then there’s the bus service, of course.’
‘To St Augustine?’ he asked, turning back to face the round-faced man.
‘Sure. Every thirty minutes or so.’
‘Thanks.’
He went back outside and sat on a bench.
‘Have you given up?’ Rae asked sitting down next to him.
‘Don’t sit down. Go and get a decent picture of John Doe from the file.’
‘Why?’
‘So that we can show . . .’
Just then, a Yellow Cab pulled up and dropped off an old woman with a suitcase. The driver was a man with curly hair and a paunch.
He gave Rae the keys. ‘Go on then.’
She hurried over to the Nitro.
Once the woman had made her way into the station, he approached the driver. ‘Excuse me.’
‘Uh huh?’
‘Were you picking up fares here last Thursday?’
The man nodded. ’I picked up one or two.’ He had a heavy accent, but Tom had no idea where it was from.
Rae returned with John Doe’s picture.
He took it off her and showed the cab driver. ‘Do you remember this man at all?’
The cab driver laughed. ‘Do you know how many people I pick up in a day?’
‘Take a closer look.’
‘Probably a hundred. I see their eyes in my rear-view mirror, and the back of their heads as they get out of the cab.’
‘He was wearing a suit and an overcoat.’
‘I get all types in the back of my cab.’
‘You might have taken him to Porpoise Point.’
‘I take a lot of people there – it’s a popular destination.’
‘What about the other drivers?’
He shrugged and pulled a face. ‘Do you know how many other drivers there are?’
‘No.’
‘There’s about thirty of us, but other cab companies pick up and drop off here as well.’
‘Okay, thanks for your help.’
‘No problem.’
The driver climbed back into his cab, moved it to the taxi rank under the shade of an oak tree and switched the engine off.
Rae screwed up her face. ‘What now?’
‘We’ll have to go to the cab company and ask the drivers.’
‘But you heard him – there are other cab companies that pick up fares here.’
‘We’ll go and see them if necessary. Unless you want to finish your story here?’
‘No, I suppose not. I just thought it would be easier, that’s all.’
‘So much for being an intrepid investigative journalist. Come on.’
They walked over to the bus stop and waited for the bus to arrive.
‘You were saying why you think John Doe was murdered.’
‘Laura thinks he was poisoned. And although there’s no toxicological evidence to support that conclusion, I’ve no reason to doubt her instincts. However, if he was poisoned there are two questions. First, did he poison himself? Or, did someone else poison him? Second, what poison did he use? Where did he get it from? And why were there no traces of it found in his body?’
‘I’d heard rumours about dinosaurs not being able to count. There are five quest
ions there – not two.’
‘But you get the idea? So, let’s say that he caught either a taxi or a bus to Porpoise Point . . .’
‘Maybe he went somewhere else first?’
‘Maybe he did. We have to map out his last movements, and we’ve already made some progress. Once we do that, we might find out who he was and what he was doing at Porpoise Point.’
‘Maybe he went there to see someone?’
‘If he did, why has no one come forward? It’s been on the television, the radio, and in the local and national papers . . .’
‘Unless the person he was meeting murdered him?’
‘It’s possible.’
A bus with a large sunshine on the side pulled up.
After the passengers had climbed aboard and paid their fare, he stepped onto the bus.
‘Where to?’ the female driver said.
‘Were you driving the bus last Thursday?’
Her eyes narrowed. ‘Why?’
He produced his PI’s license. ‘I’m trying to find out the last movements of a dead man.’
‘I hope you’re not suggesting that I had anything to do with his death?’
He smiled wryly. ‘No. I’m just wondering if he travelled on the bus from here to Porpoise Point.’
‘I wasn’t on last Thursday.’
‘Do you know who was?’
‘Yes, but I ain’t gonna tell you. Not only have I got a bus load of passengers waiting to get to their destinations, but it ain’t none of my business to talk about what other drivers were doing or not doing last Thursday with strangers. My suggestion is that you go to the bus depot and speak to the supervisor – Mandie Pidgley – you’ll get some sense out of her. Now, either buy a ticket or get off the bus.’
He heard some mumbling of agreement from the passengers.
‘Thanks for your help anyway,’ he said, and stepped off the bus.
The doors closed and the bus pulled away.
‘So, we have to go to the bus depot and the Yellow Cab company?’ Rae said.
‘Looks like it, but not today. Now, we have to go back to the ME’s office and then onto the Harrisons’.’
***
‘You need to come in with me this time.’
He’d just pulled into the car park outside the ME’s office.
‘I don’t think so.’
‘How can you write about John Doe if you haven’t seen his dead body?’
‘I’ll manage fine with the photographs, thank you.’
‘It’s not just about what you can see either.’
‘I’ll guess the rest.’
‘You need to feel the cold, clammy skin – it’s like touching sweating clay. And a corpse has a distinctive smell – like a slaughterhouse with a hint of cheap perfume.’
‘I’m sure you can’t wait to go back in there and get your daily fix.’
‘So, bring your notepad and pencil with you . . .‘
‘Have you taken out your hearing aid?’
‘. . . And the suitcase.’
He climbed out of the Nitro and began walking across the car park. When he didn’t hear her following him he turned and stared at her sitting in the passenger seat.
Eventually she opened the door and followed him carrying the suitcase. ‘If I puke or faint it’ll be down to you, you know.’
‘You won’t do either, but if you faint I’ll catch you.’
‘You’d better.’
A technician came out to get them.
‘I’m in the middle of an autopsy,’ Laura said, as they entered the autopsy room. ‘You know where John is – help yourself.’
‘Thanks, Laura,’ he said.
She laughed. ‘He didn’t persuade you to join him, did he?’
Rae grunted. ‘Against my better judgement.’
‘Have fun.’
He slid the middle shelf out and threw back the sheet.
Rae put a hand over her mouth. ‘I feel sick.’
‘Write it down. Your readers will love the realism. Make them taste the vomit in the back of your throat.’
‘You need help.’
‘Touch the body. Run your hands over the cold sweaty skin. Put your nose up close and take a deep sniff.’
‘Stop teasing her, Tom,’ Laura called over.
‘Old-aged pensioners have to get their fun where they can,’ he called back to her. ‘Okay,’ he said to Rae. ‘Let’s do what we came here to do.’ He helped himself to a selection of clear plastic evidence bags from a drawer, and then opened up the case on a work surface.
He took out the non-clothing items first and put each one into a separate bag to prevent cross-contamination with the corpse. Then, he pulled out the items of clothing one at time and laid them flat on top of John Doe. The red-checked dressing gown was long enough in the arms, as was the pyjamas jacket. The pyjamas trousers, and the light-brown trousers were long enough in the leg and the right size around the waist. He checked the red felt slippers – they were definitely too small, and there was no evidence that they had ever been worn by John Doe’s distinctive pointed feet. He put all the contaminated clothing into one plastic bag, and sealed it.
‘It doesn’t really tell us much, does it?’ Rae said.
He pursed his lips. ‘No. Have you written down what’s in the suitcase?’
‘Yes.’
‘Taken photographs?’
‘Yes. Why?’
‘I’m going to leave it here.’
‘But it’s my suitcase.’
He gave her an understanding smile. ‘It’s possibly John Doe’s suitcase – not yours. Do you want to carry it round with you for as long as it takes to solve the case?’
‘We could keep it at your . . .’
‘Tom Gabriel Investigations is not a storage warehouse. We don’t need the suitcase or the items inside it anymore.’
‘I suppose you’re right.’
‘I am right.’ He turned to Laura. ‘We’re going to leave the suitcase here, if that’s all right with you?’
Laura nodded. ‘I’ll put it with his other stuff.’
‘But I need you to do one thing for me.’
‘What’s that?’
‘The slippers in the suitcase are size 7, and his feet . . .’
‘. . . Are size 9 – that’s odd.’
‘Yes it is. The other clothing appears to fit him, but we’re still not one hundred percent sure that the suitcase actually belongs to John Doe.’
‘And . . . ?’
‘There’s a cutthroat razor, shaving brush and soap in the suitcase – can you see if there’s a DNA match?’
‘I think we can manage that.’
‘Thanks. Got everything you need?’ he said to Rae.
‘I think so.’
‘Good. See you soon, Laura.’
‘Don’t make it so long next time, Tom Gabriel,’ she called after him.
When they were sitting in the Nitro with the air conditioning on Tom said, ‘I saw John Doe earlier, you know.’
‘You’re getting senile, aren’t you? I waited here when you went in.’
‘No. I mean, I saw him. He was sitting on the autopsy table swinging his legs.’
‘That sounds really creepy.’
‘He said something. No sound came out of his mouth, but I understood what he said.’
‘He told you who he was and what he was doing on Porpoise Point, didn’t he?’
His lip curled up. ‘If only life and death were that simple. He said: “It’s finished”.’
‘What’s finished?’
‘If we knew that, we’d know everything.’
Chapter Eight
‘Lillian Taylor has emailed me back saying she’s interested,’ Rae said as they completed the return journey along the Dixie Highway towards Barbara Harrison’s house.
‘Good. We’ve accumulated a few puzzles for her now.’
‘Should I send her everything?’
‘There’s the notebook full of the three-letter
codes that belongs to Roger Harrison, and . . .’
‘. . . The words on the scrap of paper: Tamám Shud.’
‘Okay. ‘We want to know what language it is, what it means and where it came from. Make sure you tell her that it might have been torn from a book.’
‘Of course. What about the dry-cleaning tags?’
‘She lives in England – why would she know anything about American dry-cleaning tags?’
‘Maybe they’re more than just dry-cleaning tags.’
‘More! Such as?’
‘I don’t know – more. Maybe they’re a code.’
‘For what?’
‘I’ll send them anyway.’
‘I hope your expenses are going to cover all this? I don’t want Franchetti blaming me for your misappropriation of newspaper funds.’
‘He won’t, it’s legitimate expenditure for a story.’
‘You talk about a story, but you might never find out who John Doe is. I was thinking that your story could be the investigation.’
‘This is you rambling like an old-aged pensioner, isn’t it?’
‘You might not remember the good old days when they used to serialize . . .’
‘. . . Novels, or works of fiction. We had a lecture on the good old days at university.’
‘Well, that’s what I was thinking. You could serialize your investigation. A short piece each day telling readers what you’ve found out so far – a bit like a diary.’
‘Or a blog. Mmmm, it’s an interesting idea. I might ring Mr Franchetti and see what he says.’
‘It was just a thought.’
‘You’ll be a minor character.’
‘Of course – it’s your investigation. Ring him now, and then you’ll know where you stand.’
She did as he suggested.
‘Hello, Mr Franchetti, I had this idea . . .’ The call didn’t take long. ‘He said he’d see what I came up with, and I’ve got to send him something by nine o’clock tonight.’
‘Good.’
‘It doesn’t get you a free pass out of the old folks’ home, you know?’
‘I had no such expectations.’
‘That’s all right then. I’ll have to photograph the pages in the notebook.’
‘No time like the present.’
‘Drive properly then. I don’t want to send her blurred images.’
He laughed. ‘I’ve been driving for forty years and never had an accident.’
