"It?” There was a note of warmth in his voice.
"Mummification.” D'Acre looked down at the body. “I've read about it, of course. I'm familiar with it, theoretically speaking, but I've never come across it...."
"In the flesh?"
"I was trying to avoid using that phrase. But yes, this is the first time I have met mummification. But now I can cross it off my ‘things to do’ list. Explaining the warm clothing ... the height of summer. He could have been dead for years."
"Years?"
"Mummification. No decomposition of the flesh or the features, but inside he'll be hollow. He'll be very light to carry. It means that immediately upon death he was placed in an airtight place. No insects to eat up the lovely juicy flesh. The flesh itself became as parchment and as such was of little interest to present-day—this time, this day—insects. But decomposition is beginning, a much slower rate than if he was fresh, but the sooner we get him to York City, the better."
"So he was placed in an airtight room..."
"Or container."
"Or container, possibly for years, and then for some reason removed a few days ago and left in a very exposed place. Why?"
"Well that, Inspector, is definitely your department. I, for my part, have to address the question of how? How did he meet his end, before his time?"
* * * *
"Amstrad” was a Persian. His true given name was obscure even in his native land, which he claimed was and always would be Persia—he having left before, and distancing himself from, the Ayatollah's rule. In the United Kingdom, the closest his British colleagues came to the accurate pronunciation of his name was that of a Japanese electronics company. So Amstrad he was, though he occasionally remarked that no one, not even his darling English rose of a wife, could pronounce his name like his dear mother had once pronounced it; but he bore the mispronunciation with patience, tolerance, and good humour. He was a diligent man and was so on the day he carefully extracted the garments from their sealed cellophane wrapper, and laid them one by one, side by side, on the surface of the bench, his bench, in Her Majesty's Forensic Science Laboratory, Wetherby, West Yorkshire. There were undergarments, of the thermal variety, so-called “long johns,” two pairs of socks, a pair of heavy walking shoes, thick woollen trousers, a thick shirt, a pullover, a heavy jacket, fleece lined, all of the size that would fit a small man, or a growing boy. Amstrad Baft was a small man too, but larger than had been the owner of these garments. Bespectacled and white-coated, he began a minute square-inch by square-inch survey, trawling for clues, anything, anything at all which would indicate the recent history of the clothing, or perhaps the cause of death of the wearer.
Finding nothing of note from the normal-vision examination, he made a search of the pockets. All were empty, except the right-hand pocket of the jacket. It contained a till receipt from the Co-op supermarket in the centre of York, timed at 18:06 hours on the 15th day of January—eight years earlier. A man would not keep a till receipt in his jacket pocket for eight years, but it would, reasoned Amstrad Baft, be the sort of thing that wouldn't be noticed if someone else was rifling through the pockets. He placed the receipt in a cellophane sachet and then began to examine the fibres of the clothes under the electron microscope.
* * * *
THURSDAY
On the Thursday morning, Chief Inspector Hennessey took two telephone calls which were relevant to the inquiry into the death of “the mummy,” as he had privately come to think of the man found by the canal. The first was from Dr. A. Baft of the Forensic Science Laboratory at Wetherby, who gave his first name as something which to Hennessey's ears sounded like “Amstrad,” but he was unsure and so addressed the caller as “Dr. Baft,” as indeed he would have done anyway. Dr. Baft informed him that the clothing was clean and of high quality, indicating a man of substance, though perhaps short of stature. The clothing seemed old, of earlier fashion, but had not deteriorated, and Dr. Baft advanced that it had been preserved in some way.
"Dr. D'Acre, the forensic pathologist, believes the corpse to have been mummified in some way.” Hennessey glanced at the word “substance” on his notepad, circled it, and wrote “money motive?” beside it.
"That would explain the preserved clothing,” Dr. Baft said. “I also came across a till receipt."
"Oh?"
"Yes, in the pocket of the jacket, just where a fella would put a receipt at eighteen-oh-six hours on the fifteenth of January eight years ago. He went to the Co-op in York and bought foodstuffs. He paid with a ten-pound note and got two pounds, fifty-three pence in change. He bought vegetables, some tinned stuff, four pints of milk, and a pizza, a frozen pizza ... and a packet of tea bags."
"A bachelor?"
"You think so?"
"Living alone, anyway, one frozen pizza is a single person's purchase."
"I suppose it is, come to think of it. That's a police officer's brain working, I would never have thought of that."
"If indeed the receipt is his, but who carries other folks’ till receipts around in their pockets? It was probably the last purchase of his life. Four pints of milk, a large packet of tea bags, he was stocking up. He didn't expect to die."
"Again, a police officer's brain."
"Too long in the job, Dr. Baft."
And the two men smiled at each other down the phone. It was the first time they had spoken to each other, and a mutual liking grew rapidly.
"The year,” Dr. Baft said “that was the year my daughter was born, she was born in May, but I remember taking my wife to antenatal clinics in dreadful weather. That was the year of that bad winter. I despaired of it going, I thought the next ice age had arrived, didn't let up until mid April."
"I remember, who could forget? My dog loved it, though. Like all dogs he suffers in the heat."
"There was nothing else in the pockets. No wallet, no loose change, no letters, no utility bill, nothing, as if someone had rifled his pockets, but hadn't found or hadn't bothered with the till receipt."
"Which, in the end, told us much."
"It appears. I've had a glance at the plastic sheeting, found nothing, but I'll give it a closer examination this P.M."
"Appreciated."
The second phone call in respect of “the mummy” came from Dr. Louise D'Acre.
"A single massive blow to the skull.” Louise D'Acre spoke matter-of-factly. “No other injuries, no trace of poison. He once wore a wedding ring, but had taken it off. Its ‘shadow’ was on his ring finger."
"Ah..."
"Is that significant?"
"Answers a question. We found a till receipt in his pocket; the indication of the purchases was that he was a bachelor. It now seems he may be a divorcé. But a man who lived alone anyway."
"He was a man in his mid forties. Forty-four, -five, or -six. I took a tooth from the upper set of teeth, cut it in half. Gave me an age of forty-five, and that test asks that a margin of twelve months on either side be allowed."
Hennessey wrote “45 12/12” on his pad. “He took good care of his teeth, British dentistry, so there'll be dental records to check once you have a possible name for him."
"Always useful to confirm on ID."
"Returning to the injury. It's a concentrated impact point, from which the skull fractures radiate outwards, like spokes from a hub. A hammer blow, or a brick ... something like that. But not a long object, like a golf club, that would have caused a linear fracture."
Hennessey replaced the phone. He glanced out his office window at tourists walking the medieval walls beneath the vast blue sky. He glanced at the clock on the wall, above the police mutual calendar. Midday. Time for lunch. Like the citizens of York, Hennessey knew the quickest way to walk the city is to walk the walls, rather than the street-level pavements, and so he signed out and walked the wall from Micklegate Bar to Lendal Bridge, and thence to Lendal, and the fish restaurant.
* * * *
The file on “the mummy” case grew. Hennessey now knew the man
to have been murdered by being struck with a hammer, or similar object or instrument. He knew that in life the deceased had been wealthy, for he wore not the clothing of a poor man. He knew that the deceased probably lived alone, and most significantly he knew the deceased had been murdered shortly after six P.M. on the 15th day of January, eight years earlier. The man was clean-shaven and very short of stature. And his dentistry work was British. All added together, Hennessey knew it would be enough for the missing persons bureau to suggest a name. He picked up the phone on his desk, pressed a four-figure internal number, and when his call was answered he said, “Collator?"
"Yes, sir."
"Hennessey here."
"Sir."
Then Hennessey gave all the details he had on the deceased, adding, “not necessarily local."
"I see, sir.” The collator was eager, anxious to please. “I'll come back asap,” which the collator pronounced “aysap,” to Hennessey's irritation, but the world was changing, he was closing down fast upon his retirement, and it was the small things which crept up on him from time to time, and reminded him he wasn't changing with the world. In his day, he would have returned “a.s.a.p.” or “as soon as.” But “aysap” ... he sighed as he put the phone down. He cared not for “aysap,” no matter how efficient was the youthful collator. He rose and went to the corner of his office and switched on the electric kettle and observed Micklegate Bar as he waited for the kettle to boil, the open-topped double-deckers, the people of the town hurrying, the tourists ambling. He returned to his desk carrying a mug of coffee.
The collator was efficient, so efficient that he returned “aysap” before Hennessey's mug of coffee had cooled sufficiently to allow it to be consumed. Tony Watch, the collator informed him, had been reported missing by his sister on the 16th of January eight years earlier. Physical description matched; he was wealthy because of an information technology company he had formed, and was recently separated at the time he went missing. His home address was out near Selby; his sister, the reportee, lived “on the other side of the planet,” in Holgate. Hennessey thanked the collator and replaced the phone. He left his office and walked down the corridor to the office of the younger, life-all-ahead-of-him Sergeant Yellich, and tapped on the doorframe of his office doorway. “Grab your sun hat, Yellich, we're off to sunny Holgate."
"We are, sir?” Yellich stood.
"We are, sir."
* * * *
Holgate is that part of the Faymous and Faire Citie of Yorke ye tourists never see. It is black-terraced houses in rows, beyond the railway line, where washing hangs from lines suspended across the street. Hennessey and Yellich went to St. Pancras’ Wynd, to number 57, being the given address of Mrs. Torr, who eight years earlier had reported her brother to the police as a missing person.
"Never did like her.” Mrs. Torr was a frail woman who looked older than her sixty-three years, as if stricken by an internal growth. “I grew up in these streets, so did Tony, well, he would—he was my little brother. Our dad worked on the railway in the steam days, you could smell the smoke from the railway station in these streets. I'd lay awake at night and listen to the chuff and clank of the steam trains. Now they whirr past on continuous rails with hardly a sound by comparison. Such a safe, solid sound the old steam trains used to make, I really miss the sound, but then I'm a lass, I never had to get up at three A.M. and fire one so it would be ready for eight A.M. That's how long it took to fire one from cold, and that was a small one."
"Your brother ... ?” Hennessey saw the old lady's need to reminisce, especially because of her apparent medical conditions, but he had a job to do.
"Aye, Tony. He did well for himself. Those machines, I never understood them, but they came in so quickly. Ten years between me and Tony, just ten years, but I was too old for them, he was just right. Got himself out of Holgate all right. Me, I married a lad from the next street who worked on buses, and didn't get out. But Jack was a good man. I had two children and I've got six grandchildren. So I had my wealth in other ways. So Tony's body has been found, you say?"
"We think it is his body. The description fits. There's indications that fit with the time you reported him missing."
"I reported him murdered. Missing! I reported him murdered. But would they listen? I had to make a ‘misper’ report. That's what they called my little brother, a ‘misper’ report, not even a ‘missing person,’ but a ‘misper.’”
"Why did you believe him to have been murdered, Mrs. Torr?"
"Well, that cow, that calculating cow he married of course. She was one scheming female. Still is. Still in that house, Tony's lovely old house he worked so hard to pay for, now she's got it. He's dead and she's got it. He took her off the streets, gave her a house. He was forty-four, she was twenty-five. I warned him. I could see her for what she was, a woman can see another woman for what she is, a man can't, not always, anyway. My waters told she was bad for Tony. But would he listen? He was in his forties, born premature, and was small, never a success with the girls. He was known as Pocket Watch at school, Tony Watch the Pocket Watch ... but he became a computer geek and made a fortune ... and then the blond bombshell who's young enough to be his daughter drops in his lap ... he couldn't believe his luck. ‘Worth waiting for’ was his attitude. Then just six weeks, I mean six weeks into the marriage, he came round here, devastated. Heard her on the phone ... talking to a girlfriend.... She said, ‘I've only got to stick it for sixth months, then I get half the house.’ What she was saying was that if she separates after six months, she'll get half the house as part of the divorce settlement. Tony would have to sell it, give her half the proceeds."
"It's not that simple."
"She didn't know that. But the point was, Tony knew why she had married him. If it was a marriage.” Mrs. Torr looked at the summer-empty hearth and then the mantelpiece on which stood a framed photograph of a young couple, arms round each other. “Not like my marriage. I had a marriage. A proper marriage. But Tony was clever, wouldn't agree to a divorce, wouldn't give her grounds. By then she'd seen a lawyer, I think, and the lawyer told her it doesn't matter what her mates tell her, she wouldn't get her hands on half the property quite so easily. It was then that she moved out, left him. But they were still married. Tony got frightened then. Feared she would ‘do something.’”
"Do something?"
"He feared for his life. Took to phoning me each day, then one day he became a ‘misper,’ except I knew my little brother was dead. After two years he was presumed dead, so she, as his wife, got everything. She didn't get half the house, she found a way of getting it all. Each Christmas she sends me a card with a smiley face on the inside."
* * * *
Hennessey and Yellich both thought Mrs. Torr's description of her late brother's house as being “lovely, old” was apt. It was eighteenth century, graceful, balanced lines, the type of house which had given way to the Victorian Gothic style. It stood in landscaped grounds and was ivy-clad. A rabbit hopped across the lawn, doves cooed in a dovecote beside the house, a blackbird sang.
Mrs. Watch, when she was met, was a woman with cold eyes. Tall, slender, all in proportion, but moved like a woman with considerable physical strength. A rapid piece of mental arithmetic by both officers put her age at thirty-three. She did indeed look about that age, having reached that age with a life blessedly free of arthritis-inducing drudgery or figure-ruining multiple pregnancies. Her clothes were sombre in a tasteful and expensive sort of way, but by far the most striking feature of her appearance was her jewellery, not her taste but her love, nay need of it: earrings; long necklaces; heavy, multiple bracelets; also heavy, multiple rings, too many to count; ankle chains on both ankles. She “received” the officers in the drawing room, after they'd been shown in by the muscular youth with timid eyes who had answered the door.
"My husband?” She had a hard voice. “He disappeared. He disappeared eight years ago. Presumed dead six years ago."
"Well, he's now reappeared. At leas
t, his corpse has."
The woman threw an angry glance at the youth who looked sheepishly away despite his well-toned bulk, hidden only by T-shirt and shorts and training shoes.
Hennessey saw the glance, as did Yellich. No police officer would have missed it. Both officers knew that this case was about to crack wide open.
"You may have seen the TV reports ... the body on the canal towpath?"
A second angry glance at the youth, who was, it appeared, no more than eighteen or nineteen years of age. Hennessey wondered if he called Mrs. Watch “Mummy.” It seemed that sort of relationship.
"When did you last see your husband, Mrs. Watch?"
"When I walked out on him. We had a row. I left him. He lived here in this huge house all by his little self for a while. Then he disappeared one night. During the bad winter."
"What did you row about?"
"Can't remember."
"You can't? Your last row and you can't remember what it was about?” Hennessey had been married. His wife had died young of natural causes, so natural not even the medics knew what had caused it and offered only “sudden death syndrome,” which seemed embarrassingly inadequate to explain why a twenty-three-year-old woman of perfect health could suddenly collapse in the street as if in a faint, but in fact in death, probably before her head met the pavement. George and Jennifer Hennessey had had one row, it had taken place thirty years earlier, and he could recall it word for word. It had been about whether to have a pond in the garden or not. He had capitulated but wasn't able to dig the pond until two years after he had scattered her ashes in the garden, where he still went to talk to her each day, rain or shine.
"I can't. Something silly, like all rows, but it was the end. I left him then."
"No matter. The body on the towpath. It had mummified. It had been kept in airless conditions for eight years. Where? Would you know?"
"No."
EQMM, December 2007 Page 11
